by Kari Trumbo
“No, I couldn’t! I need to speak to the editor. It’s too important to just hand over to anyone.” He had the strangest urge to both reassure her and remind her that she was in his office and wasting his time.
Calm. He reminded himself to remain calm. This woman knew nothing about the politics of the newsroom. He scrubbed his hand down his face. If only she knew how many people asked to talk to the editor every day. People just like herself, with something important they wanted to share with the world.
“Look, kid. I’m sure your story is great, but nothing gets to the editor without passing one of our desks first. So, can I see your folder or not? If you don’t like the looks of me, pick someone else, but I’ve got work to do.” Her tiny shoulders strained to remain stiff under his words. She glanced around the newsroom once again and her tongue licked her lip nervously.
The woman in blue loosened her grip on the folder and her straight posture melted. “You don’t understand. I’ve never let another soul read my words. Leastwise, not intentionally. My sister stole one of my folders once...” She sighed and bit her lip again. “I wanted the editor to be the first.”
He leveled her with what he hoped wasn’t the full measure of his anger. She was wasting his time. No one ever put untried work in front of an editor. If the pretty miss wanted to be in publishing, she’d need a little education first. “You mean to tell me you came in here off the street, wanting to have your story printed without ever having anyone look at it? Anyone? Forgive me, but what if your writing is horrible? What then? It takes more than just the desire to get your name in print.”
She gasped, those lavender eyes widened and brightened with glassy tears. “It isn’t!”
Her sweetness might get her far in life, but not at his desk. “How do you know?”
She seemed to shrink in front of him, like a wool shirt scrubbed in hot water. She whispered, “I ... cry every time I read it. It’s so wonderful. It’s about this woman rancher and a lawyer she’s had trouble with in the past—”
“Give me the folder.” He was done waiting for her to understand. Perhaps if he used a direct order, hand out, she’d do as he’d asked. Soon, he’d show this little lady the door if she didn’t stop wasting his time, no matter how pretty her eyes were or how delectable that lip looked.
The file landed on his desk and she shoved it toward him with one finger, then turned to the side in her chair, hiding her face.
Inside the folder was a stack of papers an inch thick, with thin, scrawling lines of ink. Her script was neat and legible, that was a good start. He browsed the front page. “And this is a romance, or a western? You said your heroine is a…rancher?” He kept a rein on his face, hoping not to offend her further.
“Yes, it’s a romance. I want to be a dime novelist.” She resumed her straight-as-a-rod posture and soft, fake smile. The lady had pluck, whoever she was.
“We don’t publish dime novels, well, unless you count what Dunworthy writes. It’s about the same.”
Her gasp jumped out and grabbed him by the throat. “I beg your pardon?” she huffed. He would almost find her amusing if he weren’t so busy trying to stay on top of his career.
“Look.” He flipped back to the title page of the submission and scanned it for her name. “Miss Arnsby. I’ll take this home and read it. If I think the boss will want to see it—which I doubt he will—I’ll let you know. If not, you can retrieve it in a few days.”
She reached for his desk, then pulled herself back up in a rigid posture. “I don’t want to be known as Miss Arnsby. I put my true name on there because I wanted to be honest, but I want to write under the name, Misty Raines.”
He stopped himself from dropping his head onto his desk. Miss Arnsby couldn’t leave fast enough. “Misty Raines? Are you completely certain that is the name you want to write under…it’s rather—”
“Yes. I’m sure. I took a long time choosing that name.”
He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. Why was he offering to waste more precious time on her? “I’ll let you know how this goes after I’ve had a chance to read it. Give me a few days.”
Her smile beamed at him. She bounced from her seat and thrust her hand at him again. “Thank you, Mr. Davidson. You won’t regret it.” He gave in and shook her hand, so tiny within his own, then she disappeared like the little whirlwind she was, leaving him shocked in her aftermath.
He flipped to the first page.
It was a stormy warm night on her little ranch in Texas...
Groaning, he shoved the papers back into the folder, not caring if they crumpled. The wastepaper basket was the best place for them, but guilt wouldn’t let him toss it. He’d been a meek and untried newsman almost a decade ago. Marksman, the man who was now his boss, had given him a break on a story that never should’ve made the paper. Marksman had forced him to go out, dig deeper, learn more. Educate himself. It wouldn’t be hard to do that with Misty. He had to laugh. Miss Arnsby might not appreciate what he was about to do, but in the end, she’d have a story that could be published somewhere, and he’d get to see a little more of those lavender eyes.
Chapter 2
Constance handed Frances a white lace parasol as they strolled down Seventh Street. The sun glared at them and dust rose from the roadway as heavily-laden wagons drove by. “It’s too sunny out for just your hat, use this.”
Frances pushed it open until it clicked then held it above them both. “Aren’t you curious about my meeting at the newspaper? It’s been hours and you haven’t even asked.” For as opinionated as Constance had been that morning, she’d been tight-lipped since Frances had returned.
The bustle of people and horses made it near impossible to hear Constance’s reply, “Not especially. I was looking forward to a visit with my friend. After the fiasco with Reginald, it’s probably the only visit I’ll have before my father marries me off. I haven’t even seen Reginald around town. He used to be everywhere I went. Now, I never see him.”
How could Constance tell? The street seemed packed with people. They could’ve walked right past him and she wouldn’t have noticed. “Perhaps he’s just as embarrassed as you were. It’s possible that writer didn’t see anything and was just stirring up rumors. A wrathful man stirreth up strife.” After the words slipped from her mouth, she wanted to bite her tongue. She’d managed to make Constance’s pain trite. No real friend would do such a thing. Even if Constance weren’t really her friend, Frances owed it to her after allowing her to stay.
“I’m sorry Constance. That was unkind. I was just trying to say that it’s possible there’s more to the story than what ended up in the paper.” Why couldn’t she ever edit her own words before they escaped her mouth?
Constance’s face puckered like she’d swallowed a lemon seed. “It makes no sense, Frances. Why would Dunworthy sew strife between us? There’s no reason. It isn’t as if he knows us. He has nothing to gain.”
Frances slowed their pace and regarded her friend. “Truly, you can think of no reason he might want to print lies? What about all those readers in Lead and the surrounding areas who love reading about the pain of others, even their own friends. Just so long as it isn’t them. You were both happy according to your letters. How is it you can give up on him without making sure what the paper said was even true? You invested over a year with him. Doesn’t he deserve that much?”
Constance glared at her as a tear slid down her cheek. “I don’t owe him anything. He stepped out on me. It was in the newspaper, Frances. It’s supposed to be the truth! Why do you keep pushing me to explore this? Reginald is no longer welcome in my father’s house, and he isn’t welcome to my hand anymore.” Her ragged voice softened, and she gripped the parasol pulling it over her. “Not even if I still wanted him. No one could make me look good in my father’s eyes. Not now.”
It took a few rushed steps to catch up with Constance as she glided down the street. She wouldn’t argue with Constance any further. Love would win out if it
were meant to, if that was what was between Reginald and Constance. Frances couldn’t quite tell. Perhaps love just needed a bit of help, that’s all.
The swarms of people faded as they wandered farther from the city and closer to the river. Frances caught up and matched Constance’s pace. “I suppose you won’t be happy until you tell me about your visit with the newspaper. Did you speak to the editor?” Constance directed them to a park bench by the narrow but swift Rapid Creek. It played along, dashing around and over rocks, barely slowing for a nearby bend as it wound itself around the rolling hills.
The bench was hard and the new stays bit into her right under her arms as she tried to sit delicately. “I didn’t meet with the editor as I’d hoped. I met with the chief reporter, who took some interest in my novel. He kept the folder to read and agreed to get back to me when he can. He was quite dashing with his steely eyes, dark hair, and crisp white shirt. I mean, he was dashing when he wasn’t being cruelly bull-headed. He had these eyes—I knew he just wanted me to leave. But, I just couldn’t. And even though he wasn’t happy with me, I could’ve looked into those eyes for weeks.”
Constance took the parasol and closed it, relaxing slightly against the back of the bench. “You’ve only got one month. Only three more weeks. Don’t worry about whether he was dashing and instead focus on if he can help you. How are you going to rush him along?”
The sound of the burbling river was welcome after all the useless chatter at Charity Mansion. It lulled her into tranquility, something she hadn’t allowed herself to do with Constance. She’d only be in Rapid another three weeks. Three weeks was a long time. Plenty of time for Mr. Davidson to read and love her story. “I don’t plan to rush him. If my manuscript doesn’t get accepted until right before I leave, I already have a plan. I set up a bank account in Deadwood under my mother’s name and I kept the account number. I can get paid no matter where I am.”
Somewhere over the last two years, Frances had missed Constance’s need to be negative about everything. “Wait. You used your mother’s name for the bank account, you’re writing under another name, and you’re living under yet another name? It all sounds incredibly confusing. How do you expect the poor man to sort all this out?”
“I can keep it all straight. I don’t think it’ll take him all that long. The story is good. It’s taken from real life, just changed a bit. The characters are based on Beau and Ruby, how they met and fell in love.”
Constance flicked open the parasol and gave it a twirl. “And did you ask them all sorts of questions about their love? That would be embarrassing. I can’t imagine asking my mother what her first kiss was like.” Constance closed her eyes, grimacing delicately behind her fingertips.
Beau and Ruby were much too quiet to ever give her such details. Neither of them were much on talking. “Well, I didn’t exactly ask them. Much of it I had to guess.” That was the problem with her story. She had to guess at much of it. Most of the romance she knew about was second hand, listening to her sisters talk when she shouldn’t have been. She’d read enough romances to know what women were supposed to feel, but did they really? Were the feelings that sweeping, alluring...tempting? That type of test couldn’t come from an interview, even if she’d had the courage to ask. She’d asked her sister, Eva, three years before. But Frances had now lost that youthful ignorance that allowed her to press for such information, and Eva had evaded the question at the time.
If only finding out what real romance was like was as easy as catching too much sun. Frances shaded her face, then gasped. Constance might know the answer, but did she dare press? “Well, did you ever kiss Reginald?”
A moment of unease passed over Constance’s face and she turned away. “We’re back to Reginald again? I can’t believe you would ask such things. No, he never kissed more than my hand.”
The stiff way she held her shoulders and in how she sniffled at the mere mention of a kiss said more than her words ever could. Constance was lying. Reginald had left his mark more deeply on Constance than she would ever admit to Frances.
Even if Constance would push her after such a blatant lie, Frances wouldn’t. “It’s all right. At some point, I’ll kiss a man. And then I’ll be able to write better stories.” She pulled a fan from the bag hanging on her wrist and snapped it open with a practiced flick.
The parasol came to a stop and Constance shut it, blasting them with a breath of hot air. “It isn’t right to fool with a man, Frances. Kiss him because you never want your lips to touch anyone else. Kiss him because you know, in your heart, the Lord made his lips just to fit yours. But don’t ever, ever, play with his heart. Nothing good will come of it.”
Constance stood and strode toward home, leaving Frances once again to catch up.
She couldn’t let that pass. Not when Constance had claimed she had no knowledge of such things. “Why did you kiss him, Connie?”
She stopped and Frances came up short, almost plowing into her back. “Because I thought it was what we were supposed to do. I thought it was the next step, or that he expected it of me. You’re never to mention this to anyone, Frances, and especially not Father. Do you hear me? Never.”
Frances shook her head slowly. She’d never felt that from any of the men she knew. Did they really press for such attention? She slid her suddenly damp palms against her skirts. “I wouldn’t give away your secret to anyone. Not ever.”
A man’s head popped out from behind a tree and Constance gasped. He wore a tweed coat with a white shirt and brown trousers. His plain clothes easily hid him in the wooded area.
“No! Dunworthy.” The name was like a curse on Connie’s lips, and she yanked Frances in front of her.
Dunworthy emerged from behind the tree and stood in front of them, smiling as he petted his slick mustache. “Why, if it isn’t Constance Charity. How good to see you out and about. You’ve been absent recently. I do hope you aren’t unwell?” He snickered and shifted his dark eyes to Frances.
Constance gripped her shoulders and, instead of answering, emitted a low sound from her throat. Frances had no such trouble. “You leave her be. Haven’t you hurt her enough?”
Dunworthy took a few steps toward them and whispered. “I never hurt Miss Charity, despite what she would have you believe. I print the truth. Don’t I, Miss Charity?”
It was easy to let her fists ball in her fury. But as Frances turned, Constance went pale, even in the glaring sun. Her lip quivered. She said nothing and backed away.
Dunworthy advanced further, his voice a menacing whisper. “There’s always something new to write about. Such as the incident under the tree in the park…”
Take a breath, Constance! Frances wouldn’t give Dunworthy the satisfaction of getting to her friend any more than he already had. Frances put her arm around Constance and tried to push past Dunworthy, but he walked backward along the path, staying just in front of them.
“You’ll not print anything more about Constance! Not a word, or I’ll…” Frances pulled Constance along, but both her feet and her lips had stopped cooperating.
Dunworthy stopped and shoved both of them. “No one tells me what I can and can’t write, miss. I didn’t hurt Miss Charity. Her poor choice of beau did.” He leaned into Constance until his breath filled even Frances’s nostrils. “Did you enjoy your evening under the stars, my dear? Was it everything you dreamed it would be?”
Constance gasped and turned from white to deep crimson.
People strode past them on the narrow walking path, and Dunworthy glanced at the passing strangers. “There are no secrets in Rapid City. We have to keep everything lively or the wealthy resort owners would leave and then what would we have? A trade town that outfits gold miners.” He sneered. “That wouldn’t sell papers, now would it? You just keep up your sordid little life, Miss Charity. I’ll keep my notebook handy.” He tapped his breast pocket and tipped his hat as he walked away.
It took a few moments for Frances to regain her breath. “Constance? W
hat haven’t you told me?”
Her eyes were glassy, and she didn’t move. “If he puts that in the paper... I’ll be ruined.”
“Are you sure it isn’t too late for that?” Frances never had been able to hold her tongue.
Constance heaved a sob, covering her mouth with a handkerchief as she rushed back toward Charity House.
The manuscript was awful. There was no other way to describe it. But perhaps that’s what the dime novel publishers were looking for? In fairness, he’d never read one. It certainly was no Dickens. The manuscript would never pass for good with his boss, even if he were willing to print a novel, split in pieces, as a serial. As some of the papers did in larger cities. He’d taken a red pencil to the pages, marking where she needed help. What she needed most, he couldn’t give her with marks. She needed to live life. There was a naivety to her writing that would never be accepted as romantic. Though, the potential was there. While her characters were flat, the story itself held promise. If there were a way for her to experience life, she could add that to her story, and it might be enough to see it published.
But as it stood, people didn’t act the way she portrayed them. Those things couldn’t be taught. What she needed experience with the most, was men. A roguish thought shot through his mind. He could teach the budding author about romance, but he had little time for extra curricula. No matter how much fun it might be.
He flipped the pages of her manuscript over and a note from his boss sat underneath. He was to write a story about a visiting Englishman who wanted to tour the sights of Rapid City. Though the traveling dandy wouldn’t think so, vacationers weren’t news in Rapid. Over half the town’s income came from tourism to the hot springs, plays, the roller rink, and performances at the few theaters around town. But rarely did they see anyone of note. The citizens of Rapid weren’t drawn to titles. They were—at their core—hardy, salt of the earth people, who worked hard, with a sense of community he couldn’t imagine finding elsewhere.