“And, of course,” Roland continued, “I have served as the managing editor from the beginning. Hank Morrison is our typesetter. He’s fast and efficient. You will see that for yourself.”
Jack nodded, thinking it best not to say much about the staff until he’d met them. He would judge their qualifications by his own standards.
Roland got to his feet. “If you’ll come with me, I will take you to the boardinghouse. Though my wife is expecting you to be our guest for supper your first night in Killdeer.”
“I wouldn’t want to put her out, Mr. Everton.” Jack stood.
“Nonsense. She would never forgive me if we didn’t show you the proper hospitality. First impressions are important, and we want your impression of Killdeer to be a positive one. Now come along.”
CHAPTER TWO
“MOLLY, DO GO ALONG AND CHANGE INTO ONE OF YOUR nice dresses. We are expecting a guest for supper.”
At her mother’s words, Molly felt herself go hot and cold and hot again, in quick succession. A guest for supper. The new editor. It had to be. And her parents had kept everything about him a secret from her. Oh, how could they?
Then again, perhaps it was just as well she got a look at him here at home rather than in the office. She would have the advantage seated at the Everton dining room table.
She excused herself and went upstairs to her bedroom. One of her nice dresses. What her mother meant was something more fashionable. Molly favored dark skirts and simple white blouses. Clothing that was practical and allowed her to move and breathe. Ruth Everton wanted her daughter in handsome suits with gathered flounces and lots of fringe, and a corset that laced her into the perfect S shape that fashion demanded. Forget breathing altogether.
A frown creased her brow. How she wished she’d asked Father more about this Jack Ludgrove instead of storming out in a huff. How old was he? How long had he been an editor? Was he a married man? A father? A grandfather? What papers had he worked for?
She sighed as she reached for a mauve-colored gown. Her mother had bought it for her on a trip they’d made to San Francisco two years ago. She’d worn it twice. It was too frilly for her taste, although she did like the color. It went well with her complexion, bringing out the rose in her cheeks.
Molly moved to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. Should she be congenial and welcoming at this first meeting? She had no experience with subterfuge and underhanded schemes, but that did seem as if it would be the best way to achieve her desired end. Could she fool Mr. Ludgrove into believing she was glad he had come to Wyoming?
“I must,” she whispered. “There’s no other way.”
She would put on this fancy gown, sweep up her hair on her head, and act the perfect and proper lady for the evening, all the while looking for where this man from Iowa might be most vulnerable, most easily driven back to whence he came.
Reverend Lynch would not approve.
She tamped down the voice of her conscience. This wasn’t a time to be missish. This was a kind of war, and in war, one must have a battle plan at the ready.
God would not approve.
She groaned and made an even greater attempt to silence her conscience.
A tap at the door announced her mother. “I thought you might need help with your corset,” she said as she looked into the room.
“Yes, I will need help. Thank you, Mother.”
“Oh, good. You’re going to wear the gown we brought back from San Francisco. It is lovely, and it’s not much out of fashion.”
“It’s certainly good enough for Killdeer.”
Her mother moved to stand beside her. “If we want our town to become more civilized, we must act as if it is civilized already.”
Molly looked over her shoulder. “Mother, Killdeer will never be a large city. We aren’t a gold rush town. We aren’t a port city. Even when they bring the railroad spur through here as promised, we cannot expect things to change all that much. Killdeer is here to serve the ranchers and farmers. I like it the way it is.”
“Do you?” Her mother gave the corset laces a good pull. “What about all of your progressive ideas? What about women’s suffrage?”
“What has that to do with liking Killdeer the way it is?”
“Heavens, I don’t know. You always do this to me, Margaret Ruth. I get so confused.” Another good pull on the laces. “But from what I’ve seen, the cowboys and farmers around here don’t appreciate your ideas. If you want to get married before it’s too late, you’d better learn to either hold your tongue or pray for God to send a man to Killdeer who thinks like you do.”
A man who thought like Molly did. “Think you there was or might be such a man / As this I dreamt of?” she quoted to herself.
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing, Mother.”
“Please try not to talk to yourself when Mr. Ludgrove is here. It’s a very bad habit.”
Molly swallowed a sigh. “I’ll try, Mother. I promise.”
The Everton home was a short distance to the north of town. It was two stories tall with a wraparound porch. Its yard, surrounded by a white picket fence, sported green grass, colorful flower gardens, and trees all around.
Roland Everton drove the buggy to the front of the house and reined in the horse. It took some maneuvering for him to get down from the buggy, his right leg not seeming to bend in the normal fashion. Jack had to resist the urge to try to help the man.
“Come along, Mr. Ludgrove,” Roland said once both feet were solidly on the ground. “Mrs. Everton is eager to meet you.” He opened the picket gate and motioned Jack through.
“How long have you lived here, Mr. Everton?”
“Better than ten years now. When we built this house, we thought the town would grow right up to us in no time. Hasn’t happened as fast as we expected.”
“The grounds are beautiful.”
“My wife excels at growing things.”
And the Evertons had a well that didn’t run dry. The emerald color of their lawn made that plain to Jack’s eyes.
Roland opened the front door and again waved Jack to go before him. He stepped into a small entryway. To his right was a parlor. To his left the dining room. The rooms were tastefully decorated. Nothing ostentatious. The Evertons were well-to-do, but they didn’t flaunt it.
“Ruth?”
A moment or two later, a woman appeared from the back of the house. “Roland, I didn’t hear you come in.” She smiled at Jack as she approached.
“My dear, this is Jack Ludgrove. Mr. Ludgrove, my wife, Ruth Everton.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Everton.”
“Likewise, Mr. Ludgrove. And welcome to Wyoming.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be here.”
Roland asked, “Where is Molly?”
“Upstairs. She’ll be down shortly.” Ruth Everton turned and moved into the parlor, and the two men followed.
She was an attractive woman, perhaps in her early- to midfifties. Jack guessed her to be at least ten years younger than Roland. Her light brown hair was sprinkled with gray, but she had the face and form of a woman who could be Roland’s daughter rather than his wife.
“Please sit down, Mr. Ludgrove,” Ruth invited.
He was about to do so when the rustle of skirts drew his gaze toward the parlor entrance. Molly Everton, no doubt.
She wasn’t what he’d expected, though he didn’t know for certain what that had been. She wasn’t what he would call beautiful, but there was something appealing about her refined features. Tall for a woman. Slender and not too curvy where women were supposed to be curvy. Sharp angles to her face. Honey-brown hair piled high on her head. Wide, almond-shaped eyes of blue. She carried herself erect, and he sensed the strength in her spine had nothing to do with the corset beneath that fancy gown. No, hers was an inner strength.
“Mr. Ludgrove,” Roland said, “our daughter, Molly Everton. Molly, this is Jack Ludgrove.”
“Miss Everton.”
“Your father tells me you write a column for the newspaper.”
“Yes.”
“I look forward to reading it.”
There was a coolness in her gaze as she inclined her head.
He had the feeling she didn’t like him. Not a familiar feeling either. Most women were fond of him. He’d never lacked female companions, although none had ever tempted him to wed.
Ruth invited them all to be seated, then began asking Jack polite questions about his home in Des Moines, his family, his journey to Killdeer. He answered them and interspersed a few questions of his own. And then it was time for the family to go in to dinner.
The host and hostess sat at opposite ends of a modest-sized table. Jack and Molly were seated on the sides, facing each other. A maid—a girl of about twenty—served the meal.
Jack wondered how many household servants the Evertons employed. And then there was the manicured lawn. Ruth Everton might be an excellent gardener, but he didn’t envision her pushing a cylinder mower around the yard. How much could a weekly newspaper earn for its owner? Doubtful it was enough to make a man rich. Which left Jack to assume Roland or Ruth Everton or both came from money.
Interesting. And if true, why had they moved to a place like Killdeer? Jack had come west for the adventure. What had brought the Evertons?
“You seem deep in thought, Mr. Ludgrove.”
He raised his eyes to look at the woman opposite him. “Woolgathering, I’m afraid.”
A small smile curved the corners of her mouth. “You don’t strike me as the type to let his thoughts wander.”
“Don’t I?” She was right, of course.
“No. I believe nothing escapes your notice.”
She was right again. “A danger of my profession, I suppose.”
Her eyes narrowed and the smile disappeared. “And of mine.”
Ah, she was sensitive about being a columnist. Why was that? Maybe she’d been told her column wasn’t good. Maybe she knew she only had the job because her father owned the newspaper. Maybe—
“What made you apply for the editorial position at the Sentinel?” she asked. “I can’t imagine you ever heard anything about our little town before.”
“No, Miss Everton. I hadn’t heard of the Sentinel or of Killdeer until I saw the notice about the position. I applied because I have wanted to see the West since I was a boy. This was my opportunity to do exactly that. I’m hoping to have an adventure or two. The kind I read about when I was younger.”
“If you’re looking for adventure, then I don’t suppose you plan to stay long in Killdeer. There are many more exciting locations than this.”
Jack had to swallow a laugh. That she would like to see him gone was as plain as the aristocratic nose on her face.
I’ll stay in Killdeer and at the newspaper just as long as I wish, Miss Everton. Don’t think I won’t.
CHAPTER THREE
MOLLY AND HER MOTHER ARRIVED AT THE CHURCH early on Sunday morning, carrying fresh flowers in their arms. From the first blooms of spring until the first hard freeze in the fall, the Everton gardens provided lovely floral arrangements for the sanctuary and narthex.
Molly wasn’t passionate about gardening. That was her mother’s favorite pastime. But she didn’t mind helping with the flowers on Sunday mornings. There was something restful about being in the building, just the two of them. Sometimes they talked. Most times they worked in silence, the perfume of the flowers teasing their noses.
Molly was arranging roses in a large vase in the narthex when she heard footsteps behind her. Assuming it was the minister, she said, “Are we late, Reverend Lynch?”
“I’m not the reverend, but I don’t think you’re late.”
Her stomach thudded as she turned toward Jack Ludgrove.
“I believe I’m early,” he added as he removed his hat.
Good gracious, he was a ruggedly handsome man. That had been her first thought when they met on Friday evening—much to her chagrin—and it disturbed her to have it be so this morning as well. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Square jaw. She was aware of it all. “Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear; / Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!”
Jack frowned. “Come again?”
Oh dear. Had she said that aloud? “Nothing. Good morning.”
He grinned. “Thank you. It’s good to see you again, Miss Everton.”
She smiled briefly but did not return the sentiment. She hadn’t yet decided how best to deal with Jack Ludgrove. Before she could make up her mind, Reverend Lynch arrived. Jack introduced himself. The reverend was effusive in his welcome as the two men shook hands.
Molly used that moment as her excuse to slip away. She didn’t want to continue her conversation with Jack Ludgrove until she was better prepared for it. She would have liked it better if he were the sort of man to frequent one of the saloons rather than church. It would give her one more reason to dislike him.
As if she needed another.
Outside, she rounded the church and sat on a wooden bench in the shade. She liked it here. It was private and quiet. People on their way to church couldn’t see it because of a swell in the land between the church and the roads that approached it. The reverend’s wife, Emeline Lynch, had told Molly this was where her husband practiced most of his sermons, weather permitting.
Molly drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now think. What am I to do about Mr. Ludgrove?
A frown furrowed her forehead. Her father would not tolerate rudeness, so she couldn’t be obvious about her true feelings for the newly hired editor. That would make things harder, she supposed, but not impossible.
I need to get to know him. Find his weak spot.
He’d come west for the adventure. She should help him experience one. Maybe he could run into a grizzly bear up in Yellowstone. Now that would be an adventure he wouldn’t forget. Assuming he survived to tell about it.
Oh, that was a wicked thought. She didn’t wish him harm. She simply wanted Jack Ludgrove to go elsewhere. Was that such a terrible thing to wish for?
She set her jaw and rose from the bench, refusing to ask that particular question of God. She didn’t want to know the answer. It would have something to do with loving her enemy and turning the other cheek and doing good to those who spitefully used her. Not that Mr. Ludgrove was her enemy. He hadn’t spitefully used her. All the same, she wanted him gone from the newspaper and gone from Killdeer. The sooner, the better.
With a harrumph for good measure, she drew herself up straight and headed for the front of the church for the second time that morning.
Other members of the congregation had begun to arrive. She exchanged hellos with people she’d known for years. Many of them had moved here soon after the founding of Killdeer, just like the Everton family. There was Mr. Whitaker, blacksmith and owner of the livery stables. There were Mr. and Mrs. Cook, owners of the mercantile. There were the Holbrooks, who had a farm about five or six miles out of town. Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook were a good ten years younger than Molly, and already they had five children.
As soon as Molly stepped from the brightness of morning into the dim light of the narthex, she was met by her mother. “Where have you been?” Ruth Everton whispered, taking Molly by the arm.
“Enjoying the cool of the morning.”
“Your father is introducing Mr. Ludgrove to everyone.”
Molly followed her mother’s gaze. Her father and Jack were talking to the Shoemaker sisters, Jane and Ada. Both of the young women were looking at Jack as if they would like to devour him. Had they no shame?
“Come along, Molly.” Her mother propelled her across the narthex. “Good morning, Miss Shoemaker. Miss Shoemaker.” Her mother nodded toward each sister. “Isn’t it a lovely summer morning? But it shall be hot by the time we have our Sunday dinner.” She turned her eyes on Jack. “We would be honored to have you join us in our pew, Mr. Ludgrove.”
Good heavens! Her mother couldn’t possibly be attempting a bit of matchmaking. Hadn’t she learned her lesson after years of countless disasters?
“I would be honored, Mrs. Everton. Thank you.”
And then, of all things, Jack Ludgrove offered his arm to Molly. If only the floor would open up and swallow her whole. What could she do but accept? She slipped her fingers into the crook of his arm, at the same time feeling heat rising in her cheeks, and they followed her parents into the sanctuary.
CHAPTER FOUR
EARLY MONDAY MORNING, JACK LEFT THE BOARDINGHOUSE and walked toward the newspaper office in the center of town. Killdeer was quiet at this hour. He suspected Killdeer was quiet at most hours in comparison to Des Moines.
He drew in a deep breath. Even the air smelled different out west. Maybe it was the altitude—over six thousand feet above sea level where he walked right now. Or maybe it was the mountains to the north and west. The photographs he’d seen hadn’t done them justice—couldn’t in black–and–white. Those mountains beckoned to him to come and explore. He would too. Soon.
At church yesterday, Jack had learned that George Whitaker, the blacksmith, had a number of saddle horses for sale. Reasonably priced, according to the blacksmith. Jack meant to see if that was true later today.
Arriving at the Sentinel office, he opened the door—already unlocked by someone—and went in. He grinned. The air didn’t smell different in here. It was the same as every other newspaper office he’d ever known. Sounds from the back room confirmed that he wasn’t alone in the building. He moved in that direction.
Hank Morrison was seated on a high stool, his back toward the front office, setting type for the next edition of the paper. Jack had met the typesetter on Friday, but they hadn’t had an opportunity to say more than a few words to each other.
“Good morning, Mr. Morrison.”
Hank didn’t look up, though he did raise his hand and give a brief wave. Typesetting took concentration. A man had to be able to read backward. Not an easy task, especially for the small type used in articles. Jack decided not to disturb him further.
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