In contrast Wade emulated power and strength, his bronze skin suggesting many hours spent outside, the wind and the sun in his face.

  “Ah, Mrs. Johnson, I thought that was you.” He read the circular on the post out loud. “‘A thousand-dollar reward awaits someone with certain information. To find out if that person is you, read Friday’s Gazette.’”

  Arching his eyebrows, he leaned against the post, arms folded. “I must say, that’s a brilliant piece of marketing.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” she said. Irritated that the mere sight of him made her heart do acrobats, she reached for the pail of paste.

  “I didn’t say I approved. I simply said it was brilliant. So, what kind of information are you looking for?”

  She straightened, pail in hand. “You’ll have to purchase my paper to find out.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” A look of humor glimmered from the depths of his eyes. “By the way, I saw that you gave our naked friend full coverage in last week’s editorial.”

  The “friend” he referred to was an elderly man with the disconcerting habit of strolling down Main without benefit of clothing. All he wore for his daily jaunts was shoes and socks.

  So, Wade read her column, did he? For some reason that gave her perverse pleasure, though she couldn’t imagine why. “Something should be done about Mr. Pendergrass. The poor man needs care and should not be living alone.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  She drew back. “You mean we actually agree upon something?”

  Lines furrowed Wade’s brow as if the question surprised him. “I believe there’s a lot we agree upon. Our differences lie in the presentation.”

  Josie clenched her jaw. There he went again, criticizing her writing. “How’s this for presentation, Mr. Wade?” she said tersely. “I don’t believe Mr. Pendergrass is a lunatic, as some say.” The conviction in her voice came from the heart. It infuriated her when people called him such names. “He’s just old and confused. Unfortunately, the only place for people like him is the insane asylum, and the poor man doesn’t belong there.”

  Wade’s head dipped as if in agreement. “It’ll take strong words before the problem is taken seriously. Your—”

  “‘Insipid use of words’?” she managed to say through stiff lips.

  He quirked a dark brow. “I was going to say that your editorial was a good start.”

  “Which you of course will finish!” she snapped.

  His penetrating gaze brought a flush to her cheeks. “If only you wrote with as much passion as you spoke.”

  His criticism stung, but she wasn’t about to let on how much. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you the satisfaction of stealing my editorial ideas,” she retorted.

  His crooked grin threatened to puncture a hole in her vexed state of mind. “All’s fair in love and journalism.”

  “Not all, Mr. Wade. Not all.”

  ***

  After posting the last of her handbills, Josie stomped inside her office and was surprised to see her sister Amanda waiting for her.

  “Oh, there you are,” Amanda said. “I was just about to leave a note.” She stared at Josie from beneath a hat as gaily and extravagantly decorated as a Christmas tree. The red-white-and blue silk flowers matched the multicolored ribbon beneath her chin. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right,” Josie said, setting the pail of paste in a corner. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just that you look . . . flushed.”

  Josie fanned her face with her hand. “Must be the sun.”

  Amanda pulled off a glove. Today she wore a blue frock with a draped panier and braided red trim. “If only you would wear a proper hat.”

  Amanda abhorred the straw bonnets that Josie preferred. But Amanda’s designs—with their wide, circular brims and extravagant use of lace, ribbons, and feathers—never felt right, though Josie admired her sister’s handiwork. She simply didn’t like calling attention to herself through dress or headgear. It was bad enough that etiquette required her to wear black. Widow’s weeds made her stand out like a grim cloud amid the floral spring dresses favored by the other women in town.

  “I heard that wearing a hat weighing more than five ounces causes mental afflictions in women,” she said, removing her own lightweight headgear.

  Amanda scoffed. “Why does no one worry about mental afflictions in men? I can assure you that Stetsons weigh a lot more than any woman’s hat in my shop.”

  “Perhaps that explains why jails are mostly filled with males,” Josie said and changed the subject. “And where’s my adorable little nephew today?” Amanda’s son, Jerrod, was nearly six months old.

  “Mama’s watching him. Now that he’s starting to crawl, it’s harder to take him to work with me.”

  Josie nodded. “I can imagine.”

  Amanda pulled off a second glove and stuffed both in her purse. “Mama said you were traveling to Austin on Saturday.”

  “Yes, I’m meeting with a publisher friend. I’m hoping he can give me some ideas on how to increase circulation.”

  Amanda glanced at the stack of last week’s paper, and her forehead furrowed. “I was thinking about enlarging the size of this week’s advertisement.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” The last thing Josie wanted was her family’s charity.

  “I know, but I need to lessen the spring inventory to make room for my summer hats.”

  Before Josie could object a second time, her sister changed the subject. “Mama said you agreed to take the hope chest to Cousin Brenda.”

  Josie nodded. “Yes, she’s engaged to a doctor.”

  It was no surprise that Cousin Brenda had requested the family heirloom that had been hand crafted by their grandfather in Ireland. The lid was etched with a sailing ship like the one that brought her grandparents to America. Grandmama had carved her initials into the side of the chest, starting what was now a three-generation family tradition. The initials of four more brides, including Mama, Josie, and her two sisters, had since been etched into the wood. It was now time for Cousin Brenda to add hers.

  Amanda smiled. “I’m glad Brenda finally found someone to marry.”

  Josie laughed.

  Amanda lifted her eyebrows. “What’s so funny.”

  “You, my dear sister. It wasn’t that long ago that you scoffed at love and marriage. And now look at you.” Time was when Amanda wouldn’t think of missing a women’s rights meeting. But now that she was a wife and mother, she stayed home writing speeches for her suffragist friends to deliver. She seemed perfectly content to let others get the credit for her work.

  A flush crept over Amanda’s face. “People change.”

  “Yes, they do.” Josie tweaked her sister’s pretty pink cheek. “And sometimes in the most delightful way. So why are you really here? And don’t tell me it’s to place an ad.”

  “I came to ask a favor. Next week also happens to be the quarterly suffrage meeting. The mail is so undependable, and I’m afraid the speech I wrote for Miss Collins won’t get to Austin in time. I wondered if you’d deliver it for me?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “You’re a dear.” Amanda reached into her knapsack and pulled out a large brown envelope, which she handed to Josie. “After hearing what I’ve written about democratic principles, I don’t know how anyone can deny us the vote.”

  Josie didn’t share her sister’s passion for suffrage. She was far more interested in women’s education and employment opportunities than voting rights. Once college and work opportunities were fully available to women, she was convinced the rest would follow.

  She fingered the thick packet. Where women’s rights were concerned, Amanda didn’t skimp on words. “Do you think my writing lacks . . . passion?”

  “If you’re asking if your writing is as bold as Mr. Wade’s, then I’d have to say no. But it’s very sweet.”

  “Sweet?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  No, she did not. “By ‘sweet’ do you mean boring?”

  “No, not at all!” Amanda’s eyes widened in alarm. “My goodness, where is this coming from? Are you sure everything’s all right? The paper?”

  “Everything is fine,” Josie said in a tone meant to discourage further discussion.

  “If you say so,” Amanda said with a doubtful look. “Now about that ad . . .”

  Chapter 6

  Several well-known criminals vowed to go straight after learning that some prisons are charging fifteen dollars a week for room and board. Mack Peters, in prison for helping himself to the loot on a Wells Fargo stagecoach, declared the practice nothing more than “highway robbery.” He should know.—Two-Time Gazette

  Josie dreaded attending the annual May dance—and for good reason, as it turned out. Stepping into the open barn with its festive decorations and toe-tapping music was like being slapped in the face with the past. Memories of walking into this very barn on her husband’s arm were so vivid they took her breath away. She and Ralph had attended the dance every year during their courtship and early years of marriage. As Ralph whirled her around the dance floor, they’d had eyes only for each other.

  Pushing the memories away, she let out a sigh and gave herself a stern warning. Do not think about Ralph or the past.

  It took sheer willpower, but somehow she managed to clear her head of all but the present. As a newspaper editor, she could hardly avoid the social event of the season, no matter how much she might want to. An endless number of newsworthy gems could be gathered from the gossip that flowed as freely as water from a pump at such functions.

  She glanced around for familiar faces. It was early, and people were still arriving. From the back of the barn Mrs. Posey, the designated head chaperone for the night’s dance, waved her over.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Posey said as Josie joined her. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” She patted the empty chair by her side. “Here, sit by me.”

  With a sigh, Josie took her place next to the dowager and suddenly felt very old. The line of matronly chaperones looked like a flock of scavenger birds sitting on a telegraph wire. In her black dress, Josie feared she resembled a raven.

  Mrs. Posey handed her the rules of conduct that all chaperones were expected to follow or enforce. “Men must remove their weapons and spurs,” she said. “And couples are not allowed to stay together for more than two dances.”

  Josie nodded, and since Mrs. Posey was staring at her, she made a show of reading the remaining rules. She was expected to conduct herself prudently and in a manner befitting a chaperone. There would be no dancing or flirting. Nor were she and the other dance minders allowed to sing or hum along with the music.

  By agreeing to keep a watchful eye on young couples, Josie had hoped to make herself feel useful and less conspicuous. Instead, she felt very much out of place. Not only were the other chaperones older, but some were even grandmothers. They did, however, provide plenty of editorial material. That is, if she wanted to fill her newspaper with the adorable sayings of grandchildren or the relentless body aches that seemed to plague women of a certain age. Which she did not.

  Mrs. Spencer started to say something about one of her neighbors, but was immediately hushed by the others, who drew her attention to Josie with worried looks. Josie was used to people falling silent or changing the topic of conversation when she walked into a room for fear of being quoted in her newspaper. It was an occupational hazard. Some people worried about being judged biased, rude, or immoral. Fortunately, Mrs. Spencer was not one of them.

  “I hate to repeat gossip,” Mrs. Spencer declared with a sniff. “But what else can you do with it?” She then shamelessly told them about her next-door neighbor’s latest marital infidelity.

  Mrs. Simon took advantage of the sudden silence that followed to again remind everyone that in her day she’d been the belle of the ball and had danced with Crockett and Bowie. Though now in her seventies, her mind was still sharp as a pin.

  “Did you know that Davy could play a fiddle like nobody’s business?” She pointed a hooked arthritic finger at Josie. “You should put that in your newspaper.”

  Josie thanked her politely for the information, and the conversation turned back to grandchildren and aching body parts.

  Feeling at loose ends and trying not to look bored, Josie sat with feet together to keep from tapping her toes to the rousing fiddle music. Hands knotted on her lap, she gazed at the whirling couples and tried not to envy the women—some older than her—dancing with reckless abandon in their bright dresses.

  In some ways, widowhood was treated like a contagious disease. Singles avoided her; married friends had simply vanished from her life. If only her sisters were there, they would know how to make her feel less out of place. But both were tied down with small children.

  The night wore on, and talk turned from the latest issues with sacroiliacs, dyspepsia, and rheumatism to other things. This was when Josie learned that Sue Anderson had miraculously delivered a bouncing ten-pound baby boy less than six months after her wedding, that Priscilla Landry had broken off her engagement to the mayor’s son, and that Mr. and Mrs. Peterson had left for Europe.

  She stifled a yawn and looked at her pocket watch for the eighth or ninth time in so many minutes.

  Seated to the right of Josie, Mrs. Cambridge fanned herself as she kept up a running commentary on fashions. She had something to say about every dress in the place. The way she carried on, one would think the dowdily dressed woman an expert on fashion. Her floral print made her look like a potted plant.

  “I don’t know how she does it,” Mrs. Cambridge said with a nod at Anna-May Gilbert, a small, shapely woman with honey-blond hair. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think her gown was from Paris.”

  The gown in question was an exquisite raspberry satin dress draped from the waist down and gathered into a ruffled bustle in back. The bodice was embroidered with faux jewels and the puffed sleeves edged in lace.

  Mrs. Cambridge continued. “But, of course, it can’t be the real thing. She wouldn’t be able to afford such a dress on her husband’s salary.”

  Josie didn’t know how much bank clerks made—or even how much a Parisian gown cost—but Mrs. Cambridge did seem to be knowledgeable about such things.

  “I don’t know what she sees in that mousey husband of her,” Mrs. Cambridge said to no one in particular.

  While the other women expressed shock at Mrs. Cambridge’s comment, Josie looked down at her own plain black dress. How she longed for the day she could return to her usual wardrobe, though nothing she owned was as elaborate as Anna-May Gilbert’s.

  She was still staring at the raspberry dress when Mrs. Getty appeared in front of her. The women’s ample bosom heaved with righteous indignation.

  “I wish to end my subscription to your newspaper,” she said without preamble, her eyes ablaze.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Josie said. She spoke in a low voice, hoping Mrs. Getty would take the hint and do likewise. “If you would kindly stop by my office Monday—”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Mrs. Getty said, her voice even louder than before. “I refuse to step into a place that supports a house of ill repute.”

  Mrs. Spencer stopped talking mid-sentence and Mrs. Posey gasped. The other two chaperones simply dropped their jaws and stared

  Feeling the weight of their shock and disapproval, Josie’s cheeks flared.

  “I’m sorry—”

  That terrible woman—” Mrs. Getty sniffed. “Miss Bubbles has no business advertising in a family newspaper.”

  Josie tried to maintain a businesslike demeanor, but the small-minded woman was

  making it hard. “Al she’s doing is asking for help so that justice—”

  “Whatever she’s doing, I will not be a party to it!”

  Josie drew back, hands folded firmly on the lap. “Very well, Mrs. Getty. Consider your

  subscription canceled. I’m sure the Lone Star Press would be more suited to your—” She wanted to say “narrow-minded ways.” “—sensitive nature.”

  “Yes, yes, the Lone Star Press. That is a very good idea!” The woman stomped off.

  Tutting, Mrs. Posey pulled the rules of conduct from her tote and practically thrust the paper into Josie’s face. “Rule number eleven says there’s no conducting personal business while chaperoning.”

  “I wasn’t conducting business, I was ending it.”

  Josie was still glaring after Mrs. Getty when Mr. Brandon Wade stepped into her line of vision. She stiffened with a soft gasp. Speak of the devil.

  As usual, his mere presence seemed to deplete the room of air. The music, the laughter, the dancing couples all faded into the background, and for one disturbing moment in time it was as if he was the only one in the barn with her.

  Acknowledging her with a tip of his hat, he headed her way. Her pulse quickened. He seemed oblivious to the female sighs and gazes that followed him across the floor.

  Tonight, he was dressed in denim pants, a plaid shirt, and his ever-present Stetson. Looking more like a cowpuncher fresh off the trail than a newspaperman, he appeared as equally at ease dressed in casual attire as he did in his more formal frock coat.

  “Ah, Mrs. Johnson,” he said.

  Before she could answer, Mrs. Simon clasped her hands together and cooed. “How nice to see you again, Mr. Wade.”

  He tipped his hat and bowed. “You, too, Mrs. Simon.”

  Mrs. Simon’s face turned florid. Next to her, Mrs. Spencer giggled.

  Mrs. Cambridge was the only one of the four who maintained her composure. “I enjoyed your last editorial immensely,” she said in a honey-sweet voice

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Cambridge.”

  On some level, it irritated Josie that he’d only been in town for a few short months but already knew everyone by name.