“For which you take full credit, I’m sure.”

  “You have to admit, our editorial wars are turning out to be highly successful,” he drawled.

  Had he not looked so downright smug, she might have agreed. “Modest as always,” she retaliated.

  “I personally find modesty to be greatly overrated.”

  Before she could respond, Farthing addressed her. “Would you care to have your portrait taken, Mrs. Johnson?” His gaze dropped to her dull black dress. and she imagined him trying to think up ways to make it appear less . . . dreary. “Since you’re kind enough to run a free ad, there’ll be no charge.”

  “Perhaps another time,” she said. Standing next to Mrs. Gilbert’s portrait made her feel plain and unattractive. Was that how she looked to Brandon? She crossed her arms in front in a vain attempt to hide from his probing gaze.

  “Very well.” Mr. Farthing was saying. “Can’t wait to see which ad brings in the most business—yours or Wade’s.”

  “I’m curious to find out myself,” Wade said, his eyes bright with challenge. “I hope you won’t be too disappointed in the results, Mrs. Johnson.”

  She tucked the ad copy in her purse. “It’s been my experience that the biggest disappointments come to those who get what’s coming to them.”

  “I guess it says something that I’ve never been disappointed,” Wade said. “But I have on occasion been surprised. Sometimes even pleasantly so.” He slapped his hat on his head and adjusted the brim. “Good day, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Good day, Mr. Wade,” she said and watched him leave. For some reason, all that talk about disappointments and surprises made her think about lot eleven. She still hadn’t turned it over to its rightful owner. Life had been hectic since the fire. She hadn’t even had time to stop at the county office for a copy of the deed that had gone up in smoke. Combined with the problem of trying to relocate her business, lot eleven felt like an albatross around her neck.

  ***

  The following morning, Mama turned from the stove and almost dropped the pan in her hands. “Oh, my! Look at you.”

  Josie spun around. Yesterday, after leaving the photography shop, she’d decided to make some changes in her life. The mantle of grief hung heavy, but never as heavy as it had in that shop, standing next to Mrs. Gilbert’s photograph.

  Now, one hand at her waist, she struck a fashionable pose. The yellow chintz dress had always been one of her favorites. Ralph’s too. The years she’d spent with him had been a joy and a pleasure, and the yellow dress reflected and honored that time more than any black dress could do.

  The color also went perfectly with her dark-brown hair. Next to the dreary widow’s weeds, the light fabric made her feel young and carefree again. And, more than anything, cooler. The heat in the tent was bad enough without having to bury herself in black crepe or wool like an overburdened sheep.

  “What do you think, Mama?”

  Mama set the pan on the counter. “I think you look pretty as a picture, but—” She wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s too soon.”

  Josie dropped her arms to her sides. “It’ll be two years after the first of the year.” So much had happened in that time that in some ways it seemed like she’d been a widow forever.

  Her mother studied her with questioning eyes. “Why now, Josie? Why today?”

  Josie wasn’t sure her mother would understand if she knew the truth. Josie planned to meet with the mayor and needed to look and feel confident and like a woman in charge. She hoped that offering him her paper’s endorsement for reelection would convince him to give her more time to relocate. He wasn’t the best mayor Two-Time had ever had, but neither was he the worst. Getting him on her side was her last resort.

  She also needed to take care of old business, including the little matter that continued to press on her conscience: turning the deed to lot eleven over to its rightful owner. So stopping at the county office was on her list of things to do.

  “Maybe I’m just tired of being the widow Johnson.”

  That part was true. She felt more like herself today than she’d felt in months, maybe even years, and was suddenly excited about the future. Readers had responded in positive ways to the clash of opinions printed weekly. As much as she hated to admit it, she kind of liked trading editorial barbs with Mr. Wade.

  A newspaper could be both a weapon and a tool, and she enjoyed wielding it in both capacities. If newspaper sales continued like they had in recent weeks, she would soon be on sounder financial footing. Her dream of rebuilding and putting out a paper twice weekly, and maybe even daily, might very well come true.

  Since her admission only increased her mother’s disapproving frown, Josie added “I’m especially tired of having people look at me with pity.”

  “No one pities you, Josie.”

  “Some do, Mama. I see it in their eyes. And I’m tired of having to look like a dour old lady.” That’s certainly how the photographer Mr. Farthing had looked at her. She didn’t want to speculate as to what Brandon Wade had thought. “What gives people the right to tell me how to feel and act as a widow? Ralph wouldn’t recognize me, and he’d hate seeing me dressed all in black. I know he would.”

  Mama sighed. “You’re a grown woman. I can’t tell you what to do. But I do wish you’d take things more slowly.”

  Josie squeezed her mother’s hand. Mama’s deportment—her dress, her speech and impeccable manners—were perfect in every way. She had done her best through the years to make sure her daughters lived up to the same high standards, though not always with the best of results. That’s why Josie had been shocked to learn that Mama had been carrying her when she walked down the aisle. Josie still couldn’t believe it. Was the shame of conceiving a baby out of wedlock the reason her mother tended to go overboard in following society’s rigid rules? Perhaps it was her way of trying to keep her daughters from making her same mistakes.

  “Don’t worry, Mama. I’m not going to do anything rash. I just want to get back to being my old self again. Is that so bad?”

  With a loving smile, Mama nudged a strand of hair away from Josie’s cheek. “No, dear heart. That’s not bad, but I do worry about you. It’s not easy running a newspaper. You’re working far too hard. Why, we hardly see you anymore.”

  “I’m not working all that hard.” The public feud with the Lone Star Press’s editor had energized her in ways she couldn’t fully understand. The rebuttals she wrote to his columns required numerous interviews and fact checking. In addition, the sudden surge of new advertisers took up much of her time. She looked forward to each new day like never before and resented anything that kept her away from work.

  “Please don’t worry, Mama.”

  “How can I not? Some of the things you write in the paper . . . Must you resort to such . . . uncivil language?”

  “It’s what sells papers, Mama. But that’s not all it does. We’re making people think about

  all sides of an issue before forming an opinion. That’s making a huge difference in the town. People are talking about things that matter and are now making more informed choices. The school board even voted to change how textbooks are purchased. I’m helping to make a difference, and that should please you.”

  “I’m proud of what you’re doing, Josie. I just wish you didn’t have to resort to such unladylike tactics to do it.”

  “It’s theatrics, Mama. That’s all. It means nothing.”

  Mama shook her head and suddenly looked tired. “I know you and your sisters think I’m old-fashioned. But in my day, a woman would never draw attention to herself with a public dispute.”

  “That was never my intention, Mama. But journalism is a tough business, and if I don’t give the public what it wants, I lose out.”

  Mama rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Dear God, what is the world coming to?” To Josie, she said, “I fear that this will only ruin your reputation. After the last edition, even the ladies of the church auxiliary found it necessary to offer a special prayer for you.”

  Josie pressed the palm of her hand against her mother’s smooth cheek. Women, and especially widows, were expected to adhere to certain rules of deportment. And though many women might secretly admire what she was doing, few would dare admit such a thing in public or rise to her defense.

  “I’ll be fine, Mama,” Josie said.

  Mama looked doubtful, but nonetheless nodded. “I do hope so, pet.”

  Lowering her hand, Josie backed away. She plucked a ripe peach out of the fruit bowl and walked out of the kitchen.

  Only three things prevented her from enjoying the recent success of her newspaper—four if she counted that unfinished business with lot eleven. She had yet to find new office space and only a week was left before she was to vacate the premises, no one had stepped forward to claim Miss Bubbles’ award, and the arsonist had yet to be caught. There was nothing she could do about the unsolved crimes, but the future of lot eleven was clearly in her hands.

  Chapter 19

  A wool blanket hanging on a bush to dry was mistaken by a hunter for a bear. The blanket now makes a fine strainer.—Two-Time Gazette

  The door to the Lone Star Press office swung open, and the man Brandon recognized as Josie’s father barreled inside with the force of a runaway freight train. Lockwood came to a skidding stop in front of Brandon and slapped the morning’s edition onto the desk.

  The slamming door brought Booker on the run. Catching his compositor’s eye, Brandon gave his head a slight shake. Lockwood was obviously riled, but Brandon didn’t think he would do bodily harm. At least he hoped not.

  He stabbed his pen into its holder and sat back in his chair, hands folded across his middle. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “For starters, you can stop slandering my daughter!” Lockwood bellowed. A big, broad-chested man, his face was as red as a trainman’s flag.

  “Slander?” Brandon cringed at the thought. Defaming Josie was the last thing he ever wanted to do. “I assure you I have nothing but the greatest admiration and respect for your daughter.”

  Leaning over, Lockwood stabbed at the newspaper with the tip of a stubby finger. “You certainly have a fine way of showing it!”

  “Our written exchanges are strictly business.” Refusing to raise his voice, Brandon spoke with measured calmness. “I take issue with some of her opinions, but otherwise—”

  Lockwood’s fist hit the desk with the force of a sledgehammer. “I take issue with her opinions, too, but you don’t see me embarrassing her in public. And I want it to stop. Do you hear me? I want it to stop now!”

  Brandon sucked in his breath. He had no desire to fight with the man, but neither did he want to be told how to run his newspaper. “If you will kindly have a seat,” Brandon began. Keeping his voice low, he hoped Lockwood would take the hint and do likewise. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of understanding.”

  “I doubt that very much!” Lockwood roared.

  Over the next few minutes, Brandon tried several different tactics, at one point taking a firmer tone and at another a more conciliatory approach. But any effort to reason with Lockwood was met with hostility. Seeing the futility of discussing the matter further, Brandon rose to his feet, hoping that would encourage the man to leave. It did not.

  Instead, Lockwood wagged a finger and issued an ultimatum. “Either you issue a public apology to my daughter or I’ll personally sue you for slander.”

  Brandon rubbed the back of his neck. That’s all he needed—to be dragged into court. Lockwood had a reputation of being sue-happy, so it hardly seemed like an idle threat. “Sir, I think your daughter might have something to say about that.”

  Lockwood opened his mouth, but before he could deliver another spew of outrage, the door flew open and in walked Josie Johnson herself.

  ***

  “Papa?”

  Surprised to see her father, Josie’s gaze threaded back and forth between the two men who faced each other rigid as tin soldiers.

  “What . . . what are you doing here?” she asked.

  Papa swung his bulky form around to face her. “I’m here on your behalf,” he said. “I will not let this man continue to besmirch your good name.”

  Letting the door slam shut behind her, Josie took in the scene before her. Brandon looked solemn, but so did the faces of his employees peering from the open doorway of the other room.

  She drew in her breath. She could well imagine what had transpired before she walked in. Her father was not one to mince words. “You have no right, Papa.”

  Papa’s eyebrows shot up. “No right? No right, you say? I’m your father. I have every right to look out for your welfare.”

  Something snapped inside her. Today, she’d needed to feel confident and in control. But here Papa was treating her like a child. In front of Brandon Wade, no less. “Not when it involves business.”

  “That’s what you call it? This man is dragging your name through the muck, and you call it business?”

  “He’s not—” Never one to go against Papa in the past, she now lifted her chin and glared back in defiance. “Brandon . . . Mr. Wade and I have an agreement. A business agreement.”

  Papa reared back, eyes nearly popping out of his head. “An agreement, you say? You mean you approve of the rubbish he writes about you?”

  “It’s no worse than what I write about him.”

  “I won’t have it, Josie. I won’t have my daughter subjecting herself to such obnoxious—”

  “And I won’t have you telling me how to run my newspaper!”

  Her father’s face crumbled in disbelief. Amanda and Meg had fought him and his old-fashioned views, but never her. It pained her to do so now, but she couldn’t help but resent the way he still treated her like a child. She had lost a husband, fought off Indians, survived a stampede, and battled a raging brush fire. The horrors she’d lived through in Arizona Territory had earned her the right to make her own decisions. Even so, knowing her father was acting out of concern for her made her soften her tone.

  “Papa, please. I know you mean well, but I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “You’re not doing a very good job of it, are you?” With that her father streaked past her.

  “Papa!”

  He whirled around to face her, his finger practically in her nose. “If you continue this unsavory . . . feud, you are no longer my daughter or welcome in my house.”

  His words sliced through her like a knife, and her temper flared. “You are a fine one to talk about feuds!” For years Papa had fought with the owner of Two-Time’s other clock shop. Their feud had affected not only the family but the entire town.

  Her father’s eyes glittered with anger. “I have nothing more to say to you.” With those chilling words, he stormed out of the office. The door slammed in his wake with a finality that made Josie’s heart sink and the Press’s employees scramble back to their desks.

  Josie stared at the closed door and gritted her teeth. “Ohh, he makes me so mad.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Brandon said. “He’s concerned about you. I’m afraid I’d feel the same way if I thought Haley was being mistreated.”

  She turned to face him. “Haley is only nine.”

  “Age makes no difference to a parent.”

  Reminded that parenting was something she knew nothing about, she clamped her mouth shut.

  Now that her father had left, she took stock of her surroundings. The orderly atmosphere seemed more suited for a house of worship than a newspaper office. Reams of paper were stacked neatly on shelves, along with cardboard boxes clearly marked with the names of various metal letter types. Like her, Wade made additional income by printing handbills and pamphlets between newspaper runs, and samples were neatly arranged on a felt-lined bulletin board.

  A quiet shushing sound floated from the press in the back room as it efficiently printed copies without benefit of a hammer or even curses. It was a far cry from the sound of grinding rocks her own printer made on press day.

  The neatly organized office made her wish she’d taken Brandon’s offer to use his printing press. Only pride had kept her from doing so. She did not want his charity.

  She turned her gaze back to Brandon to find him studying her with curious intensity. A new wave of feeling came over her. This time it wasn’t anger that fueled her emotions. It was a sense of uneasiness. Papa hadn’t seemed to notice her change of apparel, but it appeared that Brandon had.

  “Look at you,” he said, confirming her suspicions. He gave her a visual sweep that extended all the way down to her polished high button boots, bringing a flush to her cheeks. His admiring gaze lingered perhaps a tad too long at her small waist for her peace of mind. Only when he’d glanced away could she breathe easy.

  It had been a long time since a man had looked at her like a woman and not someone who had to be handled like fine china. She’d thought she was ready for this, ready to leave the protective cover of widow’s weeds behind. Now she realized how totally unprepared she was. Maybe Mama was right; perhaps it was too soon.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asked.

  Josie handed him a small paper sack. “Would you give this to Haley? I have it on good authority that peppermint sticks cure just about everything.”

  Curiosity filled his eyes. “And you think Haley needs curing?”

  “The last time we spoke, I got the impression that maybe there was a problem.” When he neither denied or admitted anything was wrong, she added, “I haven’t seen her since the day the circus came to town.” If she didn’t know better, she would think that Haley had purposely tried to avoid her.

  He hesitated a moment. “Haley’s . . . going through a difficult time right now.” he said, his voice taut.