Just Her Type Read Free

cattle barons band together to stop rustlers seemed reasonable, and he could not understand why it required an editorial until he reached the last paragraph.
    Why haven’t these rational measures been instituted by those who have the power to halt the faceless bandits? Those who could halt them have no interest in doing so. Why? To put smaller cattlemen out of business or to force homesteaders off their land? Or are there more immediate profits to be made? It behooves those who lament to find out if those rustlers are on someone’s payroll and if the missing cattle have been rebranded. Only when those who point a finger take a share of the blame will there be peace on the high ranges .
    Slowly he lowered the paper. “I assume you wrote this, Miss Smith.”
    â€œCall me Mackenzie. Everyone does.” She glanced over her shoulder, and fatigue edged her expressive eyes. “I write all the editorials.”
    â€œThis is good.” He rose and crossed the room to where she was withdrawing the bed of type. “You aren’t afraid of what sounds like a potentially potent subject.”
    â€œâ€˜Potentially potent?’ You’ve got a gift for understatement, Mr. Bradfield.”
    â€œCall me Luke. Everyone does.” He grinned. “At least, people who aren’t furious at me.”
    â€œAnd what do those folks call you?”
    â€œNothing a lady should hear.” When she did not answer, as she lifted aside the metal tympan where the paper was held, he added, “Let me help you with that.”
    â€œI can manage.”
    He smiled as he drew her hands from the ink-covered bed. He folded them between his. Her fingers curled into fists, tickling his palms. Her skin was soft and supple, like the strand of hair slipping along her throat. When she pulled away, he resisted reaching for her hands again. It was not going to be easy working with this woman whose luscious voice made him think of investigating the warm contours of her lips.
    â€œI’m not here just to send articles to the Independent, ” he said before she turned away again. “I’m here to learn, Mackenzie.”
    â€œI suppose you’re accustomed to a linotype machine,” she retorted with sudden frigidity.
    â€œI’m not accustomed to any machine. I write my article, give it to my editor, and read it in the morning edition.”
    She shot him a superior smile. “Then it’s about time you learned, but not in those clothes. That fancy suit probably cost more than my press. Why don’t you go out back and wash the ink off your hands and change?”
    â€œI’m afraid I didn’t bring any clothes for working on a press.”
    â€œThen you’d best find something.” She shoved the heavy tray onto a wheeled table he knew was called a turtle. “Don’t worry. I’m stronger than I look.”
    â€œYou’ve got a talent for understatement, too. That tray must be heavy.”
    â€œIt is.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Mr. Brad—Luke, I still have the other page to set up. If you’ll get out of my way, I should be done soon.”
    When she bent to her work, he cursed. Carter had been crazy to tell him to treat Mackenzie Smith with the respect due an editor. Of course, Carter had had no idea that the Mackenzie Smith running The Bentonville Bugle would be a lovely woman with beguiling eyes.
    Picking up his satchel, Luke walked toward the door she had pointed to with the ball of chamois she was using to spread powdered ink on the press. Outside, a bare yard was surrounded by a picket fence in need of paint. He saw a well near a small barn and put his bag next to it. Lifting the heavy lid, he drew a bucket of water.
    He grinned. Authentic roughness was what he had come west for, and he had found it. He doubted if water was pumped into the newspaper office. Probably it had no gaslights. The idea of electricity here was preposterous. He