“Cole!” She dashed past Eli and Noralee and out into the street.
He reined up and sat looking down at her until she thought she would scream. Then he leaned half out of the saddle and closed his hands under her armpits. The next thing she knew she was being hauled sideways across his lap.
She buried her face against his shoulder and felt his body tremble. He pressed his face against her hair, tightened his arms around her and kneed the horse forward.
“Cole, thank God,” she said when she could talk. “Thank God.”
He held her without speaking until they reached the jail at the far end of town, and then he reined up. He made no move to dislodge her or to dismount. Instead he brought his mouth to her ear.
“I need a bath and a shave, Jess.” His breath was warm and rough against her cheek. “And then I need to take you to bed.”
Marshal Johnson lifted her down and steadied her while Cole slowly dismounted. His motions were stiff, as if he hurt all over. Jess lifted one of his arms around her shoulders and slipped her free arm around his waist. Together they moved past a blubbering Noralee and a shiny-eyed Eli, who managed to reach out and pat Cole’s free arm as they passed.
“Eli, get me some whiskey,” Cole rasped. Then he dipped his head and pressed his bristly chin against Jess’s hair. “Bath first.”
An hour later he lurched through the door of her office and walked unsteadily up to her desk. “I’m not drunk, Jess. I just haven’t slept much the past two days.”
Without a word she rose and shut the door behind him. Then she marched to the window and turned the Closed sign to face the street.
Chapter Twenty
Upstairs in Jess’s bedroom, Cole tumbled fully clothed onto the bed, and before she could skim off her skirt and shirtwaist, he was asleep.
He slept until past midnight while she held him, and when he woke he shed his shirt and jeans and stripped off her petticoat and the rest of her underthings and caught her trembling body under his.
He wanted to make it good for her, but he couldn’t hold himself back. “Jess,” he croaked. “Jess.” He felt like weeping as he touched her and stroked her body. Her skin was warm and silky and smelled good. So good. He was hungry, desperate to be with her, inside her, and he guessed he was a little crazy.
But she said nothing, didn’t stop him or urge him to take it slow, just rode with him, and when he was spent she held him close.
In the morning he looked down at her kiss-swollen lips and her dark lashes and wondered if he was dreaming. Or dead. No, not dead. He felt marvelously, miraculously alive after his night with Jess, and damn grateful. Made him think of all kinds of things, like how important Jess was to him and how short life could be. He didn’t want to waste any more time without her.
All at once he realized what day it must be. Friday morning! And he had a newspaper to get out.
“Jess, wake up. I’ve got to—”
She opened her eyes and gave him a drowsy smile. “No, you don’t, Cole. Eli and Noralee locked up the galleys last night. You can read your Friday edition at breakfast.”
He stared at her. “You wrote the stories for my newspaper? All of them?”
“All except the editorial,” she said. “I left that page blank.”
An hour later, over platters of scrambled eggs and bacon, Cole avidly read every single typeset line of every single story Jess had written for him.
Lark Editor Disappears
Sheriff suspects foul play following election defeat of Conway Arbuckle.
He kept reading.
Conway Arbuckle Arrested!
Sentinel editor Jessamine Lassiter marches losing candidate to jail.
Cole clunked down his coffee cup. “Just how did you do that?” he demanded.
Jessamine crunched into her fifth sourdough biscuit slathered with strawberry jam. “With my new derringer, of course.”
Cole read on.
New Sheriff Recruited
Texas Ranger Anderson Rivera will assume the Smoke River sheriff’s position as Jericho Silver takes new post as district judge.
He scanned the other headlines.
President Grant Opens New
East-West Railway
Sioux Nation on Warpath!
Indians Swear Vengeance
for Massacre
Music School Announces
Summer Operetta Plans
He read until Jess couldn’t stand it another minute.
“Well? Is it all right?”
He scattered the pages onto the table. “It is very all right, Jess. In fact, it’s so all right it’s scary. You have a secret hankering to run two newspapers?”
She sent him an exasperated look. “Do I seem touched in the head? Ready to be locked up somewhere? How can you ask such a question?”
“Just checking. I wanted to make sure there was still room in this town for two newspapers.”
“Two competing newspapers.”
“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “I guess we do have to compete. We need to keep up our circulation, and competition between the Lark and the Sentinel will do just that.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Thanks, Jess. I owe you.”
*
Jessamine broke her first story about the new sheriff in the Saturday edition of the Sentinel, devoting the lead article to the former Texas Ranger Anderson Rivera. Reading it over in his office that morning, Cole scratched his head.
Smoke River Welcomes
New Sheriff
Smoke River welcomes experienced tracker and lawman thirty-two-year-old Anderson Rivera. The new sheriff will be sworn in by Jericho Silver, the district judge, upon Rivera’s arrival from Texas, which is expected within two weeks.
Colonel Rivera’s father was well-known Texas rancher Don Luis Lopez-Rivera, originally of Chihuahua, Mexico.
His mother was the former Marguerite Anderson Cutty, of York, England. Both parents are deceased.
Jess’s article went on to describe Rivera’s education—eighth grade; military service—colonel in the Confederate army; and marital status—widowed.
When the Lark came out on Tuesday, Cole called Jess’s opening bid and raised her ten.
New Sheriff a Mystery
New sheriff Anderson Rivera’s arrival in Smoke River brings more questions than answers. First, who is this man? A Texas Ranger, we are told. Why, one wonders, does Smoke River need a Texas Ranger to keep the peace? Second, what’s in it for him? The sheriff of a small Oregon town isn’t nearly as well paid as a Texas Ranger.
So, I ask again: Who is this man?
The new sheriff will board with Ilsa Rowell, who is his half sister.
But that isn’t the most interesting thing. What’s most interesting is that our new sheriff’s philosophy of peacekeeping is unusual, and it consists of merely two words: “Whatever works.”
Contacted by telegraph in his native Dry Creek, Texas, Colonel Rivera expressed interest in his new territory in Oregon with the following, and I quote: “Are the women pretty?”
Finally this reporter uncovered one other intriguing item: our new sheriff sings bass.
“Sings bass!” Jessamine spluttered over a cup of tea at the restaurant. “Of what relevance is that?”
“Human interest,” Cole said.
She glared across the table at him. “And ‘Are the women pretty?’ What’s that got to do with law enforcement?”
She couldn’t believe Cole had dug up more information about Rivera than she had. In the past three days she’d sent seven telegrams, and all the replies had been full of relevant information. But Cole had outsmarted her by reporting on personal items, which would surely titillate newspaper readers.
Why didn’t I think of that?
“Excuse me,” she said with frost in her voice, “I have another editorial to write.” She rose, twitched her gray skirt into place and marched out.
She returned to the Sentinel office in high dudgeon. “Why didn’
t I think of that?” she complained to Eli.
“Ya did, Jess,” the old man allowed. “Ya just weren’t nosy enough. Besides, you didn’t know about his half sister.”
“Oh, I detest that man,” she fumed.
Eli snickered. “Which man, Anderson Rivera or Cole Sanders?”
“Cole Sanders,” she retorted.
“Nah,” he drawled, “you don’t detest Cole. You detest being outdone, that’s what.”
“Hush up, Eli. I most certainly have not been ‘outdone.’ We’ll just see who’s ‘outdone.’”
Eli rolled his eyes and crunched into another one of his oatmeal cookies.
But Eli was right in one regard. Ever since his kidnapping, she and Cole were doing two contradictory things; on the one hand, each time their eyes met across a desk or a dining table or a courtroom, they looked at each other differently. And when she was anywhere near him she wanted to reach out and touch him, just to be sure he was really there.
On the other hand, she often found herself withdrawing from him, asking him to speak to her as a fellow journalist and not as a…well, lover. And Cole took pains to honor her request.
Absently she reached for the last of Eli’s cookies.
Chapter Twenty-One
While the town breathlessly awaited the arrival of Anderson Rivera, their new sheriff, Cole decided to run a series of human interest articles on the man. On a sunny Monday morning, he went from the restaurant onto a tree-shaded side street and found Ilsa Rowell, Billy’s mother, bent over a washtub in her backyard, scrubbing mud off a pair of the boy’s jeans.
“Mrs. Rowell?”
“Yes?” She didn’t straighten up. She didn’t even look up, just kept drubbing the garment up and down on the corrugated tin washboard.
“I understand our new sheriff, Anderson Rivera, is a relative of yours,” he ventured.
“Yes, he is. He’s my brother. Actually he’s my half brother. His ma married my pa and then she had me.”
“I see. Was this in Oregon?”
“Texas. Down near the Rio Grande. My brother is—was—a Texas Ranger.”
Cole already knew that from Jessamine’s article in the Sentinel, but he wanted something more. Something intriguing. Something sensational, if he could pry it out of Ilsa.
“Why did he quit the Rangers?”
“Good question,” she said shortly.
“What would you guess his reason was?”
Ilsa straightened and propped soapy hands on her hips. “I sure don’t know, Mr. Sanders. I never did understand Sonny, and when I was growing up he made it pretty clear that nothing he did or said or even thought was any of my business.”
“Sonny?”
“That’s what his pa called him. I do, too.” She bent again over the washboard.
“Did you like him? Was he a good brother?”
That brought her ramrod straight, a sopping pair of jeans in her hand. “A good brother? Mr. Sanders, I worshipped Sonny, I really did. I liked him, I really liked him. Still do, as a matter of fact. He’s a good man, just…private.”
Private, huh? Cole twiddled his pencil between his thumb and forefinger. He was getting nowhere with Ilsa Rowell. To all appearances, the new sheriff’s past was dull as dishwater. Maybe the man was curled inward tighter than a corkscrew.
Or maybe, just maybe, the man had a secret of some kind, one that would warrant leaving the Texas Rangers and coming a thousand miles north to a tiny out-of-the-way place like Smoke River. A scandal, maybe? A killing? A woman?
Ilsa gathered up an armload of wet clothes. “Excuse me, Mr. Sanders.” She sent him a look and then shouldered her way past him to the clothesline in the backyard.
Cole sighed. He hadn’t gotten the story he’d hoped for this morning, but he wasn’t about to give up. Sheriff Anderson would be here within a week; Cole would wait. And when the man came to town, he would sharpen up his pencils and pounce.
*
On the second Monday in January, Jess turned up at the meeting room behind the barbershop to cover Jericho Silver’s swearing-in ceremony. She was an hour early.
Nearly a hundred townspeople had gathered to witness the event, but the closer the hour drew, the more curious she became. Why wasn’t Cole present? Was he out covering a more interesting piece of news? The thought made her squirm.
What am I missing?
At two o’clock sharp, tall, tanned Jericho Silver in pressed jeans and a crisp white shirt took his place before Federal Marshal Matt Johnson, who was entrusted with the investiture proceedings on behalf of Governor Morse in Portland.
“Raise your right hand, Jericho,” the marshal instructed. Maddie Silver stepped up to her husband’s side and slipped a Bible under his left palm. While she swiped tears of pride off her cheeks, Jericho swore to uphold the laws of the state of Oregon and to be fair and impartial in dispensing justice.
It was thrilling to watch. Jess felt her own eyes tear up right along with Maddie’s. Jericho Silver, the orphan boy from Portland of unknown parentage, a man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps, who had built a reputation for toughness and even-handed justice, had beaten rich, puffed-up Conway Arbuckle fair and square at the polls. Oh, she did love democracy!
After the ceremony, Jess drew Maddie aside for an in-depth interview about finding herself the wife of the new district judge. But all the while she was scribbling on her notepad, she wondered where Cole was and what her competitor was doing. Was she missing something newsworthy?
If so, what on earth was it?
She wanted to ask Maddie something personal, something with the human interest aspect Cole was always yammering about, but she hesitated to voice it. Oh, well, why not? Cole said human interest was what sold newspapers.
“Maddie,” she began, her tooth-nibbled pencil poised over her notepad, “what is it really like, being married to the sheriff and now the Lake County district judge?”
Maddie laughed. “I’m not married to either the sheriff or the district judge. I am married, very married, to a man, Jericho Silver. And believe me, Jessamine, that is a challenge.” The young woman’s cheeks flushed a pretty rose color. “And,” she added, her voice dropping, “a great pleasure, as well.”
Well! She couldn’t print that!
“I understand you have a career, too, Maddie, as a Pinkerton agent. How do you and Jericho carve out any time together? Especially now that you are the parents of twins?”
Maddie leaned toward her and lowered her voice still further. “At night, Jessamine. Jericho and I are together at night. All night.”
“Heavens, I can’t quote that, Maddie. It’s too personal.”
“Well, yes, I suppose it is,” Maddie said with a laugh. “I thought you wanted to know, as a woman and not just as a newspaper editor.”
“Yes,” Jess said quickly. “I do.”
“You know, Jessamine—and I don’t want to be quoted on this—but I didn’t really want to marry Jericho and settle down in Smoke River.”
Jess stared at her. “You didn’t? Why did you, then?”
Maddie sighed. “Why does any woman marry a man and settle down? I wanted to be with Jericho. And I wanted that more than I wanted anything else.”
“Oh.” Jess was not often at a loss for words, but at this moment “Oh” was all she could think of to say. Maddie wanted to be with Jericho more than she wanted anything else. How extraordinary.
After another half hour of talk so personal Jess knew she could never use it in a news story, she said goodbye, hugged Maddie and returned to the Sentinel office.
The afternoon dragged on and on and still Cole did not appear. She loaded her afternoon edition into Teddy MacAllister’s saddlebags and helped Billy Rowell stuff his sack full, saw both boys off and then walked down to the restaurant for supper. Alone.
While she poked at her chicken croquettes and mashed potatoes, she thought about Jericho and Maddie Silver.
What was it like to be married? And have two careers
?
*
When the latest edition of the Lark came out, Jess received another shock.
Sheriff Anderson Rivera
to Arrive in Smoke River
Tuesday Afternoon
Pooh! That was simply not possible. Texas was over a thousand miles from Oregon. Even if the man rode fifty miles a day, it would take him twenty days to get here. Cole was bluffing. He had to be. Besides, today was Tuesday.
She charged across the street and collided with Noralee at the front door of the Lark office.
“Didja see him, Miss Jessamine? Didja? Oh, he’s so tall and…and…he takes great big steps!”
“Your imagination is working overtime, Noralee. Sheriff Rivera won’t be here for at least two weeks.”
“But he is here, honest. I saw him.”
Jessamine followed the burbling girl into Cole’s office.
“It’s true, Jess,” Cole said calmly from behind his desk. “Rivera’s here.”
“Impossible,” she said.
Cole’s dark eyebrows went up. “Why is it impossible?”
“Because a man, even a paragon of law enforcement, as Anderson Rivera is purported to be, cannot ride a thousand miles in—”
Cole laughed aloud. “Who says he rode?”
“Well, how did he get here if he—”
Cole stood up. Because he was towering over her, Jess had to look up at him. “Stop and think a minute, Miss Thinks-She-Knows-Everything.”
Her face changed. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “The railroad.”
For a moment Cole almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Yes, the railroad,” he echoed.
“But…but what about his horse?”
“The man hasn’t got just one horse, Jess. He’s got a whole remuda. He’s hired someone to drive them north.”
Noralee giggled over her type stick, and in that instant Cole realized he’d made a tactical error. He wanted to compete with Jess, not make her so mad she’d never let him get close enough to kiss her again.
He reached his hand out to touch her arm, but she jerked away with a sniff.
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