“Because of the camel episode?”

  “It didn’t help. I’m afraid she’s missing her old friends back in San Antone.”

  “I thought she was making friends here.”

  “She was, but as I’m finding out, things don’t always go smoothly with nine-year-old girls, and that includes friendships.”

  “I guess that can be a difficult age,” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thank you, no. But I’ll tell her you asked about her.” He set the sack of candy on the desk and cocked his head to one side as if expecting her to say more.

  “There is one other thing,” she said. Determined to put her father’s stinging words behind her, she tried to recall her carefully rehearsed speech. “It’s about lot eleven.” Ralph’s lot. The sudden thought momentarily distracted her. No, she mustn’t think of it as belonging to her late husband.

  “Go on.”

  She reached for her locket as she tended to do whenever thoughts of Ralph threatened to overcome her. Finding her chest bare of any ornament surprised her. Shocked her. Had she lost it? Or simply forgotten to put it on?

  The argument with her father had affected her more than she’d liked to admit. Instead of feeling strong and in control, she felt unsure of herself. Brandon’s steady gaze didn’t help.

  “It’s nothing, really.” She shook her head and backed away. Better to come back when she was feeling more like herself. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time.” With a sense of dismay, she turned. Before she’d taken but a few steps, he caught up to her. Hand pressed against the door, he barred her escape

  She swung around to face him—big mistake. For that only shortened the distance between them. If the thin space that separated them wasn’t worrisome enough, he leaned forward, placing both hands on the door on either side of her, locking her in place.

  “What’s going on? Why did you really come?” He was so close she could smell his bay rum hair tonic. So close she could see the golden tips of his dark eyelashes. So close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “If you have something to say, say it.”

  Hands pressed against his manly chest, she tried pushing him away, but he refused to budge. Gazing up at him, she felt a flash of anger. How dare he hold her captive! Her still in widow’s— Okay, maybe she should have listened to her mother and abandoned the yellow dress. Still, he had no right. No right at all!

  “You’ll have to let me go first,” she said coldly, though she was more irritated at herself than him. She wanted to be treated like an equal, and here she was acting like a child. It was time she showed Papa—showed them all—that she was a strong, capable person.

  “Very well.” He dropped his hands and backed away.

  Stepping away from the door, she held herself as rigid as a man in armor. Reaching into the purse dangling from her wrist for the carefully folded deed obtained from the county office, she slapped it on his desk.

  Brandon stared at it with furrowed brow. “What is that?”

  “The deed to lot eleven. It’s yours.”

  He frowned in puzzlement. “I thought that matter was settled.”

  “It wasn’t,” she said. “At least not to my satisfaction.” Meeting his visual hold with a boldness she didn’t feel, she added, “It’s yours.”

  “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want the property, what took you so long to tell me?”

  She didn’t want to admit the truth: that she still thought of the property as Ralph’s, even though he’d never owned it. Nor did she want to think about Ralph proposing marriage by the river and carving their initials onto the trunk of a tree. The truth was too personal to share, and revealing it might make her lose her composure.

  She let the silence stretch between them until, at last, he answered for her. “Ah, don’t tell me. You still suspect me of setting fire to your office.”

  She no longer thought him guilty—hadn’t for a long time. Still, he offered her a way out and she took it. “You once told me that all was fair in love and journalism.”

  He tilted his head. “And you took me at my word? I guess I’ll have to be more careful what I say in the future.” He gave her a sharp, assessing look. “You don’t really believe I would resort to arson, do you?”

  She hesitated. It was either play along or tell him the truth. “The fire occurred after the Gazette started selling again. Even you would have to admit the timing is suspect.” She gave him an angled look. “You said it yourself. You’re an all-or-nothing type of guy.”

  “I don’t deny that. But if you recall, I was the one who came up with the idea of clashing editorials.”

  Feeling more like herself, she allowed herself to smile. “A ploy, perhaps, to throw me off the track?” she asked.

  He laughed. “You give me more credit than I deserve. Sorry to disappoint you, but as I told you before, I had nothing to do with the fire.”

  “Then I would say our business here is complete.”

  She quickly left the building, and this time he made no effort to stop her. There. It was done. Ralph’s dream was now in the hands of that disturbing man, where unfortunately it belonged. She’d hoped that ridding herself of widow’s weeds would take the sting out of burying Ralph for what seemed like a second time.

  It did not.

  ***

  For the remainder of that day, Brandon hadn’t been able to stop thinking of the unexpected visit from Josie Johnson. She sure had been a sight to behold in that bright-yellow dress of hers. He could still envision the play of emotions on her pretty, round face. The fiery depths of her eyes. The . . .

  He clamped down on his thoughts.

  The woman was messing with him. No question. She’d come prancing into his office, exchanged heated words with her father, and, after inexplicably handing him the deed to lot eleven, taken off like a cat with its tail on fire. Never had he professed to understand the way a woman’s mind worked, but Mrs. Johnson had him buffaloed.

  “When are you going to print my picture, Papa?”

  With a guilty start, Brandon turned his attention back to his daughter. “Right now.”

  He fed Haley’s drawing into the printer and turned the crank. The grippers pulled the paper through the roller carriage to the ink press and shot it out to the delivery board, where he lifted and held it up. Haley’s drawing of him had been scrupulously chiseled into a wood block. “What do you think? Is that magic or what?”

  The corners of Haley’s mouth lifted. It was the first semblance of a smile since the circus fiasco. “Oh, Papa, that’s amazing.”

  He handed her the paper. An imaginative child, she’d always been prone to nightmares, but they’d steadily increased in recent weeks, and the camel episode had only made them worse. He’d thought bringing her to the office would cheer her up. It did, but only slightly.

  “How many copies do you want? A dozen. Five hundred? A thousand?” He was teasing, of course, and when she didn’t answer, he turned to look at her. “What’s the matter, muffin?”

  She stared at the picture in her hand. “I want to go back to San Antone.”

  Brandon grimaced. Here they went again. “The circus is gone. You no longer have to worry about camels.”

  The eyes looking back at him swam with tears, and once again he felt remiss as a father. As if he didn’t feel guilty enough for not having taken her back for a visit as promised. The paper had demanded so much of his time.

  Along with the tears came a look he couldn’t put his finger on. Fear? Panic? Desperation? How could one so young feel such strong emotions?

  “I hate it here,” she said, and this time her lower lip trembled.

  Hand on her chin, he tilted her head upward, forcing her to look at him. “Since it’s summer, I know it’s not school that has you so upset. Did you and your friend have an argument?”

  “No.”

  He drew his hand away from her chin. “What is it, then? Tell me.”

  The tears welling in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. “I just want to go home!”

  “Haley, this is our home.”

  He felt a sharp twist of frustration. Surely there had to be something he could do to draw her out of this terrible melancholy.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ll ask Mrs. Greer to pack a lunch, and tomorrow I’ll take you to a special place by the river for a picnic.” Since he hadn’t told her about lot eleven, he added, “I have a surprise for you.”

  “I don’t want to go on a picnic. Not here!”

  “Haley—”

  “I hate it here,” she cried with all the vehemence one so young could muster. She turned and yanked open the door.

  “Haley, wait.”

  But already she had raced out of the office and was halfway up the street by the time Brandon followed her outside.

  Brandon scratched his head. Confound it! It was the second time that day that someone of the feminine persuasion had run out of his office seemingly without rhyme or reason. Haley might only be nine, but she was turning out to be every bit as much of a puzzle as Josie Johnson.

  Chapter 20

  It had cost Columbus $7,600 to discover America. No doubt it would cost him just as much today to run for Congress.—Two-Time Gazette

  Josie sat at her desk that Monday staring at the calendar. She couldn’t believe it was almost the end of July. Only three days were left in which to find a place for her office. Sighing, she held her head in her hands.

  Whatever could she do next? She’d already made a last-minute appeal to Mayor Troutman. Despite her pleas, the fool man refused to budge. Even her offer to give him her paper’s endorsement for reelection in the fall wouldn’t change his mind.

  It wasn’t just the mayor’s ultimatum that weighed heavily on her. Still at odds with her father, she had moved in with her sister Meg and brother-in-law Grant. She was now without both an office and permanent home. Her life was spinning out of control, and there didn’t seem to be a way of stopping it.

  Voices outside the tent filtered through her troubled thoughts. Groaning, she sat back in her chair, palms on her forehead. Now what? Since she’d revamped the “Love Links” guidelines, reader complaints were down considerably, but there was always someone offended by something or other printed in the newspaper. Just last week, Mrs. Tuttle had taken her to task for a news item noting the change in the railroad schedule, as if she controlled such things.

  The outside chatter grew so loud she could no longer ignore it. Leaving her desk, she lifted the tent’s flap to peer outside. Much to her surprise, a large crowd was gathered in front, spilling onto the boardwalk and street.

  “Looks like trouble,” Hank said, looking over her shoulder.

  From beneath an enormous feathered hat, Mrs. Mooney motioned for her to join the throng. Josie ducked through the tent’s flap and Hank followed.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, shading her eyes against the sun’s white glare.

  Mrs. Mooney cleared her throat with an important air. “We’ve come to tell you—”

  “Wait!” T-Bone stepped next to her and ran his hands down his blood-stained apron.

  The butcher’s pox-marked face looked redder than usual. “Why do you get to tell her?”

  “Yeah!” shouted a voice from the crowd.

  Josie’s gaze shifted from Mrs. Mooney to T-Bone. “Tell me what?” she asked, but the two of them were too busy scowling at each other to pay her any heed.

  Mrs. Mooney crossed her arms across her ample chest. “I get to tell her because I’m the bank president’s wife, that’s why.”

  T-Bone made a dismissive gesture. “That gives you no right—”

  “It most certainly does—”

  The argument might have raged on indefinitely had Mayor Troutman not stepped between them, arms spread wide as if warding off two advancing armies. “As mayor of this fine town, it’s my duty to make the announcement and—”

  “It was my idea!” Mrs. Mooney exclaimed.

  Miss Bubbles’ eyes narrowed beneath her painted blue eyelids. “It wasn’t just your idea.”

  Mrs. Mooney threw up her arms. “Oh, for crying out loud.” Before anyone could stop her, she turned to Josie. “We’re here to tell you that we’ve collected enough money for you to build a new office.”

  Not sure she’d heard right, Josie glanced at Hank, who looked every bit as perplexed as she was. She turned back to Mrs. Mooney. “Wh-what did you say?”

  Scooter stepped out of the crowd and handed her a thick envelope. He grinned. “Like Grandpappy always said, ‘A purse without money is called leather.’”

  Josie peered inside the envelope at the generous wad of cash, and her mouth dropped open.

  “Moly hackerel,” Hank said, gaping at the stack of bills.

  It took Josie a moment to find her voice. “I . . . I appreciate this more than words can say, but I can’t accept your charity.”

  “Yes, you can,” Hank whispered in her ear.

  Josie shook her head, but Mrs. Mooney insisted with a disapproving look at her banker husband. “This isn’t charity. Nor is it a loan. This is our way of preserving a piece of our history. The town wouldn’t be the same without the Gazette.”

  “Yeah,” T-Bone said. “If it wasn’t for the Gazette, our Nellie-Sue wouldn’t have a beau.”

  “Nellie-Sue has a beau?” Josie asked. That was a surprise. The girl stood six feet tall, looked like a beanpole, and had a personality to match.

  “Yep,” T-Bone said proudly. “Thanks to the ‘Love Lock’ column.”

  “‘Love Links,’” Hank said.

  Farmer Haines spoke up. “And if it weren’t for the Gazette, my Katherine wouldn’t be getting married. That’s one less mouth I’ll have to feed.”

  A birdlike woman spoke up. “Because of the Gazette, I found me a gentleman friend from the next county who appreciates my cooking.” She gave Hank a glaring look. “He also approves of the way I keep house.”

  More and more people stepped forward to tell how the Gazette, and particularly the “Love Links” column, had changed lives for the better. Josie felt a warm glow stirring inside her.

  “I feel like I’m at a revival,” Hank said, but he looked pleased too.

  When the last of the testimonials had been given, Mrs. Mooney pressed her hands together. “So, you see, your newspaper provides a valuable service. The money in that envelope is our way of saying thank you.”

  Josie drew in her breath. “Well . . . I—”

  Hank plucked the envelope out of her hand. “We accept.”

  Josie wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, when you figure it out,” T-Bone said, scowling at Mrs. Mooney. “You can tell that Wade fella to take his gun-banning idea and stuff it in a well.”

  T-Bone wasn’t alone in his thinking. Wade’s last editorial had caused much in the way of controversy, splitting the town in two.

  Mrs. Mooney glared at him. “I happen to think banning guns in town is a great idea.”

  “It’s a terrible idea,” Mr. Walker, owner of the gun shop, said with a shake of his fist.

  While the argument raged around her, Josie couldn’t stop gazing at the envelope in Hank’s hand. The town’s generosity touched her more than words could say, and her heart nearly burst with gratitude.

  “What do you think, Josie?” Mr. Walker’s gun-toting wife asked. “Do you or do you not think gun banning is a good idea?”

  Josie smiled and, swiping away her tears, gazed at the Lone Star Press office across the street. The publisher was nowhere in sight. She’d already written a scathing column regarding the bank’s unfairness to women. But, in light of these new developments, she decided to save that article for another day. “You’ll just have to wait for Friday’s paper to find out.”

  ***

  Josie stayed at her office late that night so Hank could go to press the following day. Things were moving quickly, and there was still much work to be done. Already, sun-dried adobe bricks had been delivered, and the ground preparation was scheduled to start on Thursday. That gave them two days to pack up and move the tent to the rear of the lot to make room for the new building.

  She still couldn’t believe how the town had rallied around her. The mayor had reluctantly agreed to allow Josie’s tent to remain on site while the new office was under construction, but only because Mrs. Mooney and the others had pressured him.

  A thrill of excitement rushed through her whenever she thought about a new building to call her own. She still couldn’t believe it.

  Forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand, she ripped the paper out of the type-writing machine and rolled in a fresh sheet. It was getting late, and she couldn’t go home until she’d finished writing that week’s editorial.

  Wade would no doubt take issue with her stance on making Two-Time a gun-free town. She had written that firearms were a dangerous companion for any man, especially when combined with whiskey. Other towns, including Tombstone, Deadwood, and Dodge had banned weapons, and many more planned to follow.

  Wade called the idea of controlling guns unmitigated cockamamy and an assault on the second amendment. His argument was that outlaws would rather rob a bank in Tombstone or Dodge than a town like Two-Time, where almost every man and some women were armed.

  Though it was true that the town hadn’t had a bank robbery in at least two years, it had no shortage of shootings. Most, but not all, were harmless.

  “I’ll give you cockamamy, Mr. Brandon Wade,” she murmured beneath her breath. Her fingers pounded the keys with such force that, had they been matches, flames would have shot from her nails.

  The editor of the Lone Star Press likes to draw his weapon when editorializing, but this time he is clearly off his mark.

  Fingers posed over the keyboard, she sat back in her chair. What was the word that meant outdated and unreasonable? Ah, yes. Mumpsimus.

  She completed the article and pulled the paper from the rubber cylinder. With pen in hand, she read what she’d written. Crossing out the word malarkey, she changed it to rubbish. After making a spelling correction, she placed the finished article in the basket for Hank to set in type.