“I’m sure it’s no more than what Mrs. Johnson would do for me in similar circumstances.” He looked straight at her as if expecting her to object.

  “That’s a very kind offer,” she said. “But I don’t think I’ll be publishing anytime soon.” Maybe never again. The thought was followed by what felt like a knife plunging into her

  heart. Everything she’d worked for was now up in smoke. It seemed that all the things she loved and cared about kept slipping through her fingers, and there wasn’t a blasted thing she could do about it.

  Wade pushed his hat back and hung his thumbs in his vest pockets. The early morning sun turned his eyes into what looked like melted chocolate. “Well, now, that’s a crying shame. You’ll be missed.”

  “I rather doubt that, Mr. Wade.”

  “It’s true. In fact, I’d like you to come and work for me. I’ll even give you your own column.”

  The offer surprised her. “You’re offering me a job?” She couldn’t help but add, “An insipid writer like me?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Surely you didn’t take me seriously.”

  “Seriously enough to know you would object to my . . . civil style of writing. So, thank you, but I’ll pass.”

  “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I hired your typesetter?” He gave Hank a questioning look.

  “Not at all,” she said. She hated the thought of Hank working for the Lone Star Press, but the poor man needed a source of income.

  Hank glanced at her before answering. “I’m mighty obliged, but I’m lot nooking for another job.”

  If Brandon noticed Hank’s speech impediment, he showed no sign. “I hate to see you both give up.”

  “Oh, we’re got niving up,” Hank said. “Not as long Miz Josie here has a few arrows left in her quiver.”

  Hank’s confidence brought a lump to Josie’s throat. She doubted she was deserving of such conviction and loyalty, but it touched her deeply. More than that, it awakened something inside, and she felt a new sense of resolve begin to stir.

  Brandon’s dark eyes sought hers. “It’ll be interesting to see where Mrs. Johnson aims those arrows next. If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.” With a tip of his hat, he turned and jogged down the three steps leading to the dirt street.

  She waited until Brandon was out of earshot before turning to Hank. “You really should take him up on his offer. I won’t feel bad if you do.” Okay, so she’d feel rotten, but she’d feel even worse knowing Hank was out of work.

  Hank shrugged. “I told you, this is my home.”

  She scoffed. “Some home. There’s nothing left.”

  Hank looked surprisingly unfazed. “Nothing but the printer, and I think I can get it going again.”

  She stared at him, not sure she’d heard right. “Y-you can?”

  He nodded. “It’ll take more than a bit of heat to ruined that old iron horse. It needs a good gleaning and creasing, is all.”

  She cast a dubious glance at the machine, the only thing left standing. He made it sound so easy, but it sure did look like it would take more than a good cleaning and greasing to get the thing running again.

  “We need more than a printer to run a newspaper.” Her desk—everything was gone.

  Hank pulled his spectacles off, huffed on the lens, and wiped away the ashes with his handkerchief. “I found some lead typeface that’s still usable. That is, if you don’t mind printing in circus font.”

  She laughed. Circus font was generally used for advertisements and was meant to look big and bold. To accommodate the larger type, she would have to use more paper or less wordage.

  Hank continued. “I have a little money put away. Enough to buy whatever supplies we need to get started.”

  His generous offer brought tears to her eyes. “Hank, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but we don’t even have a roof over our heads.”

  Slipping his spectacles back on, he gazed at the cloudless sky. “Won’t be the first time I’ve been rithout a woof.”

  Josie reached into her pocket for her handkerchief “Are you saying we should open up shop here? With no building? Nothing? Why . . . why that’s crazy.”

  He shrugged. “Blame it on the war. You know how it huddled my mead.”

  Hands clasped to her chest, she blinked back tears and glanced around, her mind in a whirl. It might work. At least for a while. That is, if it didn’t rain.

  “You know what?” she said, slipping an arm through Hank’s. “I kind of like that muddled head of yours.”

  He looked at her askew. “Does that mean we’re back in business?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” She pulled her arm away and tapped her chin.

  “I ordered paper and ink last week,” she said, thinking out loud. “It should be here on tomorrow’s train.”

  A grin spread across his face. “We have paper, ink, and a printing press. In my book, that adds up to a newspaper. So, what’s the problem?”

  Her gaze traveled to the ugly black scar where her office had once stood. “There is no problem,” she said. Swiping away the last of her tears, she laughed. How ridiculous to think that they could put out a paper under such dire circumstances. It was utterly, utterly insane. And yet….

  “What are we standing here yakking for?” she said. “Come on, we have work to do.”

  Chapter 13

  The Spinsters’ Club decided to hold meetings jointly with the Bachelors’ Club. This paper predicts that the demise of these two fine clubs is not far behind.—Two-Time Gazette

  Mayor Troutman stared in utter disbelief at the old army tent now filling the lot once occupied by the Gazette office. He shook his head until his jowls wobbled. “Are you out of your cotton-pickin’ mind? A tent? In the middle of town?” he railed, pulling his cigar from his mouth.

  Josie tried not to laugh at his horrified expression, but it was hard to keep a straight face. “It’s only temporary,” she said. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take her any longer than five years to rebuild—ten at the most.

  Her assurances did nothing to soothe the mayor’s ruffled feathers. “That . . . that tent is a blight on the community.” He knocked the ashes off his cigar and stuck it back into his mouth. “That’s what it is. A blight!”

  So far, he was the only one taking issue with her new accommodations. She still couldn’t believe the number of Two-Time citizens who’d rallied around her and pitched in to help. People had showed up with shovels, rakes, and hoes. They’d set to work scooping ashes from the ground and carting debris away in wagons.

  The tent had been donated by a war veteran, and Meg’s husband, Grant, had surprised her with a type-writing machine. And people had dropped off casseroles and flowers at the house until her father protested that it looked and smelled like a “danged funeral parlor.”

  Mr. Woodman had contributed the sign. Since there was nothing to hang it on, he nailed it to a post.

  There was no room in the tent for the printing press, so it had to remain outside. One of the church ladies loaned Josie an old quilt to throw over the press when it wasn’t in use.

  Josie let her thoughts fade away, only to find the mayor still on his soapbox. “I cannot allow such an affliction to tarnish our fine town,” he barked, jabbing his cane into the ground for emphasis.

  She bit back her irritation. “I told you it’s only temporary,” she said, barely able to get a word in edgewise. “And if you don’t mind, I have a business to run.” She walked away.

  He’d called her temporary office a blight on the community, but to her eyes it was a sign of love and acceptance. For the first time since returning to Two-Time nearly a year earlier, the town felt like home again.

  The mayor stomped after her. “That tent is an eyesore,” he sputtered. “And I want it down now!”

  Temper flaring, she pivoted, hands at her waist. “So, what do you suggest I do? I don’t have the money to rebuild.”

  “Not my problem,” he bellowed, his cigar dangling from the side of his mouth. “But you better do something and fast. I won’t have my town looking like . . . like the slums of New York.”

  With seething breath, she watched him trudge off, muttering to himself. “If you paid more attention to the traffic problem,” she shouted after him, “you wouldn’t have time to worry about my tent!” As if to underscore her argument, the angry voices of two farmers vying for the same parking space could be heard in the distance.

  Nearly as soon as the mayor had stomped away, Miss Bubbles drove up. Her horse-driven wagon was a garish affair decorated with brightly painted flowers. Today the madam was dressed from head to toe in eye-popping red, her skirt draped with enough ruffles to confound the eye.

  “Thought you could use a desk,” she called, tossing a nod toward the back of her wagon stopped in the middle of the street.

  “Sure can,” Josie called back.

  The madam climbed out of the driver’s seat and watched as Hank and the sheriff lifted the desk from the back of the wagon. The piece of furniture had been painted a bright purple, and Josie couldn’t help but laugh. What would the mayor say about that?

  Josie hugged the madam and got a face full of feathers in return. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your generosity.”

  Madam Bubbles waved a ring-laden hand through the air. “It’s the least I could do to repay you for all that you’ve done. Posting those handbills all over town was a lot of work.”

  “The sheriff said nothing came of it,” Josie said, her voice tinged with disappointment. It was hard to believe no one had responded to the large reward, except for a few cranks who would turn in their own mothers just to claim a thousand dollars. “Did anyone contact you?”

  Miss Bubbles shook her head. “No, but that doesn’t take away from what you did.”

  “We’re not done yet. We’ll keep running the ad at no additional cost to you.” Someone must know what had happened to that poor girl.

  Miss Bubbles surprised her by tearing up. Two rivers of black charcoal streamed down her ruby-red cheeks. “I’m not used to such kindness.” She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a dainty lace handkerchief.

  “I’m just as anxious as you to see the perpetrator brought to justice,” Josie assured her.

  “Where do you want the desk?” Hank called.

  “Where else?” Josie said, pointing to the moth-eaten canvas tent. “In my office.” In my beautiful, beautiful office.

  ***

  A week later, the first copy of the Gazette rolled off the press to loud cheers and applause.

  Brandon stood in his office doorway watching the startling sight from across the street and shook his head. Who would have thought such a thing possible? Mrs. Josie Johnson certainly did have arrows in her quiver, not to mention starch in her corset.

  Darting around a passing horse and wagon, he crossed over to join the crowd watching Hank work the press. A noisy old thing, it sounded more like it was grinding nuts than spitting out paper, but it got the job done. Barely.

  Mr. McGinnis played his bagpipes for the occasion, and for once no one complained about the whiny sound. Though Mrs. Mooney did comment unfavorably on the knobby knees displayed beneath the man’s green-plaid kilt. The Scotsman’s legs received more attention than Mr. Pendergrass, who walked by in his usual state of undress.

  But most eyes were fixed on Hank, who made a big production of hanging each newly printed paper on a rope strung across the property to dry.

  Mrs. Johnson’s two sisters folded the papers as soon as the hot sun dried the ink. Almost at once each copy was snatched up by eager readers tossing coins into tin cans.

  Mrs. Johnson herself ducked out of the tent and waved to the crowd. Despite what she’d been through the last week, she appeared remarkably relaxed, her smile as dazzling as the noontime sun.

  When her gaze met his, Brandon felt himself sinking into the blue-green depths of her eyes. A shiver of awareness unnerved him, rendering him momentarily at a loss for words.

  She acknowledged his presence with a slight nod. “Mr. Wade.”

  Realizing with a start that he was still staring, he hid his fascination behind a conciliatory smile. “Congratulations,” he said with a clap of his hands. “I see my worthy opponent is officially back in business.”

  An odd expression that he couldn’t decipher flashed across her face. The look was both wary and combative, as if she didn’t know whether to fight him or trust him.

  “I’m sure you would rather that I wasn’t,” she said.

  “On the contrary. Nothing keeps a man on his toes better than a little competition.” His gaze traveled through the open tent to the type-writing machine sitting upon a monstrosity of a purple desk. “If you like, I’d be happy to write your next editorial for you,” he said with a droll smile as he swung his gaze back to her. “I’m sure you must have other things to do.”

  Mrs. Johnson abrupt decision to discontinue their war of words had been a disappointment.

  “And what has me all fired up this time?” she asked. “Editorial-wise, I mean.”

  Resting his elbow on his crossed arm, he tapped his chin. “My column demanding the town build a larger jailhouse. Of course, you object.”

  Her forehead creased. “On what grounds?”

  He thought a moment. “You’re convinced the money would be better spent on more pressing matters. A larger school and better roads, perhaps. A place for our au natural friend.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but the wariness remained in the depth of her eyes. “How fortunate that I have you to tell me how I feel.”

  “Oh, I believe you know quite well how you feel, Mrs. Johnson. But newspapers require a more . . .”

  Her eyes flashed blue fire. “Vociferous tone?”

  He dropped his hands to his side. “I prefer to think of it as a more persuasive use of words.”

  “Actually, I believe you’ll find my way with words in next week’s editorial to be quite persuasive.”

  “In that case, I look forward to reading it.” He cocked his head to the side. “Did you mention my name?”

  “Is there any reason that I should have, Mr. Wade? Mention your name, that is, in an article about arson?”

  Something in her tone of voice made him knit his brow. Surely she wasn’t suggesting that he’d had anything to do with the fire?

  “None that I can think of,” he said, but she had already turned and walked away.

  ***

  The Gazette’s “Love Links” column was only in its fourth week, but already the matrimonial ads had proven to be a resounding success. Josie couldn’t be more pleased. The four-line personals filled two pages and more than made up for the loss of county legal notices.

  Even more surprising, not everyone placing an ad was single. Mrs. Jeffries had been married to her husband for fifteen years and just wanted to see “What else is out there before I kick the old fool out.” Becky-Sue Harris’s reason for buying an ad was that she hoped to make Scooter jealous. She and the sheriff had been a couple for two years, and things weren’t progressing as quickly as she expected or even wanted.

  “If I wait for him to make the first move, I’ll die an old maid,” Becky-Sue moaned.

  “I know he cares for you deeply,” Josie said.

  Becky-Sue tossed her head, and her blond sausage curls bounced off the back of her neck. “Good. Then maybe when he sees me with someone else, he’ll pop the question.”

  No sooner had she paid for her ad and left than Hank voiced his own complaints. Some of the women under his consideration had grown tired of waiting for him to make up his mind. They’d taken matters into their own hands by placing their own ads in the Gazette.

  “Dang women don’t give a man a chance,” he grumbled.

  Josie laughed. “Maybe they’re just trying to make you jealous.” She picked up the mail and rifled through it . . . until a soft mewing sound outside the tent made her drop the stack of envelopes.

  “Is that—”

  She and Hank exchanged hasty glances before the two of them made a mad dash to the flap of the tent. It was Mr. Whiskers all right, looking a little thinner but otherwise none the worse for wear.

  Laughing with delight, Josie scooped the cat into her arms and carried him inside. “Where have you been, eh?” She sighed. “If only you could talk.”

  Grinning, Hank looked every bit as happy as she to have his old pal back. “You might not like what he has to say.”

  “Maybe not. But at least we’d know the name of the arsonist.” Not knowing had filled her with suspicion and she no longer knew whom to trust. If Mr. Wade was not the arsonist, then somebody else was. But who? And why?

  Hank ran a hand the length of Mr. Whiskers’ back. “I’ll go and fetch him some milk.”

  Nodding, she worked a thistle out of the tom’s matted fur.

  Hank lifted the flap of the tent and glanced back. “How do you suppose he escaped the burning building?”

  “That’s a good question,” she said. “A very good question.”

  She’d been so busy setting up her office she hadn’t had time to think beyond getting that weeks’ edition out. Now that things had settled down, she couldn’t stop thinking about the arsonist. The questions of who had burned down her building, and why, continued to fester the rest of that morning like a burr in her side. Possible suspects and motives streamed through her thoughts, putting her on edge. Unable to think of anything else, she headed for the sheriff’s office that afternoon, hoping for answers.

  Unfortunately, Scooter had none to give her, only speculation.

  “You don’t think Mr. Whiskers escaping the fire is significant in some way?” she asked.

  Scooter shrugged. His office was hot, and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. “Maybe the arsonist is an animal lover and let the cat out before he set the place on fire.”