âDo I make you nervous, Jessamine?â
âWhat? Of course not. What would I have to be nervous about?â
He took a step closer and she backed up. âMe, maybe?â he said. He sent her a grin that seemed positively wicked.
âN-no,â she blurted out. âNot you.â
âMy newspaper?â
âOf course not. Iâm not afraid of a little competition.â
Itâs you I am afraid of. She cringed inwardly at the admission. She squared her shoulders and forced her eyes to meet his.
âYeah? Then how come youâre edging toward the door, Miss Lassiter?â
âIâm not!â
But she was. She couldnât get away from those laughing blue eyes fast enough.
Author Note
Itâs a myth that women of the Old West were solely wives and mothers. Women were as intelligent, courageous and enterprising in the eighteen-hundreds as they are now. Many of them ran ranches, owned and operated dressmaking and millinery shops, hotels, boarding houses, restaurants and saloons, and even newspapersâas this story will demonstrate. They also worked as teachers, housekeepers, nannies and cooks, and engaged in dozens of other ventures to make their livings. In addition women were engaged in the arts, as painters, writers, lecturers and photographers, and it is to these intrepid females we owe much of our knowledge and appreciation of nineteenth-century life and culture.
Chapter One
Smoke River, Oregon, 1870
Jessamine glanced up from her rolltop desk in front of the big window in her newspaper office and narrowed her eyes. What on earth...?
Across the street a team of horses hauling a rickety farm wagon rolled up in front of the empty two-story building that until a week ago housed the Smoke River Bank. A brown canvas cover swathed something big and bulky in the wagon bed.
She couldnât tear her gaze away. A tall, jean-clad man in a dusty black Stetson hauled the team to a stop and jumped down. He had a controlled, easy gait that reminded her of a big cat, powerful and confident and...untamed. His hat brim shaded his face, and his overlong dark hair brushed the collar of his sweat-stained blue work shirt.
She sniffed with disdain. His grimy clothes suggested he needed a bath and a barber, in that order. He was just another rough, uncultured rancher come to town with a load of...what? Sacks of wheat? A keg or two of beer?
The man untied the rope lashing the dirty canvas over whatever lay beneath, and she stood up and craned her neck to see better.
Oh, my fatherâs red suspenders, what is that?
The barber, Whitey Poletti, and mercantile owner Carl Ness put down their brooms and ambled across the street to see what was going on. In two minutes, Mr. Rancher had talked them into helping him unload the bulky object. He loosened the ropes securing the thing, lowered the wagon tailgate and slid a couple of wide planks off the back end. Then he started to shove whatever it was down onto the board sidewalk.
The canvas slipped off and Jessamine gave an unladylike shriek. A huge Ramage printing press teetered on the wagon bed.
A printing press? Smoke River already had a printing pressâhers! Her Adams press was the only one needed for her newspaperâthe townâs only newspaper.
Wasnât it?
She found herself across the street before she realized sheâd even opened her office door. âJust what do you think youâre doing?â she demanded.
Mr. Rancher straightened, pushed his hat back with his thumb and pinned her with the most disturbing pair of blue eyes sheâd ever seen. Smoldering came to mind. Was that a real word? Or maybe they were scandalizing? Scandalous?
âThought it was obvious, miss. Iâm unloading my printing press.â He turned away, signaled to Whitey and Carl, and jockeyed the huge iron contraption onto the boardwalk.
âWhat for?â she blurted out.
Again those unnerving eyes bored into hers. âFor printing,â he said dryly.
âOh.â She cast about for something intelligent to say. âWait!â
âWhat for?â he shot from the other side of the press.