Just Her Type Read Free Page A

hoped, at the very least, there was a telegraph office. Wiring his stories would be the only way to get them back to Albany in less than a week.
    â€œHow did you get in here?”
    Luke turned. A boy by the gate had a schoolbook strapped to a slate flung over his shoulder. From under a shock of unruly brown hair, dark eyes regarded him with curiosity.
    â€œThrough there.” Luke pointed at the print shop.
    â€œWhat’re you doing here?”
    He tilted the bucket into the nearby trough. “I’m going to be working on the Bugle . Who are you?”
    The lad straightened, bringing his eyes level with Luke’s chest. “I’m Douglas McCraven.”
    He offered his hand. “Good to meet you, Douglas McCraven. I’m Luke Bradfield.”
    â€œThat’s a funny suit.”
    â€œDouglas!”
    Luke turned as the boy did. Mackenzie stood at the back door and motioned for the boy to come inside. When Douglas passed her, she whispered something and patted him on the backside. The boy glanced at him and giggled. The pounding of Douglas’s footsteps, going up stairs Luke had not noticed, ended as Mackenzie came out.
    When she offered him a bar of soap, Luke wet it under the pump. The harsh lather ate at his skin. He winced and dropped it as he dunked his hands in the icy water. “Is that kid a friend of yours?”
    â€œMy son.”
    He looked at her. Then he recalled the boy had called himself McCraven. He did not want to be caught accepting a lie. “Is that so?”
    â€œYes.” She tossed him a stained towel. “Supper’s in half an hour, if you want to join us.”
    â€œMackenzie?” he called as she walked toward the shop. When she looked back at him, he asked, “Where’s Douglas’s father?”
    â€œDead.” Going into the house, she left him to stare after her in shock.

TWO
    Mackenzie stirred the beef soup. Behind her, Douglas’s pencil scratched as he did his lessons. He must be ciphering. The sound did not match his enthusiasm when Miss Howland had the students write an essay.
    She chuckled. Douglas had inherited his grandfather’s ability to tell humorous tales. It was not a skill she had. She had considered asking Douglas to help with the Bugle , but writing two columns a week was too much to ask of a nine-year-old.
    Perhaps Luke Bradfield …
    She scowled. Why had he shown up today ? She already had enough trouble without a greenhorn in her shop. If her newsprint had not arrived on this train, she would be printing the next Bugle on scraps. And the one after that—There might not be an issue after that.
    She rubbed her lower back. Maybe that would not be so bad. After the last fire, she had thought Pa would close down. Instead he had ordered a replacement press and had had the ingenious idea of putting it on wheels so they could whisk it away if there was another fire.
    With The Bentonville Bugle as his pulpit, Pa had enjoyed spouting off on any topic which distressed him. That his opinions sometimes were based on hearsay and had to be retracted never seemed to bother him. Pa would have put Luke Bradfield on the next train out.
    That was not true. From Luke’s insightful comments, it was clear he was an experienced newspaperman, although he wore finicky clothes. She glanced at her skirt. Ink blotched every dress she owned, except the one she saved for church on Sunday. It had not bothered her … until now.
    She clenched the spoon. No Easterner, no matter how brightly his brown eyes twinkled, should unsettle her like this. Her life was filled with men. Some who were good-looking and rich, several who had told her they would be interested in replacing her late husband Cameron. Yet, not a single one had disconcerted her as Luke did.
    â€œMa?”
    Glad to escape her uncomfortable thoughts, she asked, “What is it, Douglas?”
    â€œWas that man being honest?”
    Knowing “that man” was