Pine Haven, Texas
October, 1881
“I’ll be right with you.” Mary Lou Ellison was on her knees behind the press. A gust of wind from the opening door had caught her story notes and floated them under the edge of the beast of a machine.
A deep voice refused to wait. “I’m looking for the owner.”
Mary Lou caught the edge of the paper and pulled it free. The notes on the harvest celebration were the most interesting she’d had in weeks. She wouldn’t disappoint the townsfolk by not covering the festivities for the next edition of the Pine Haven Record.
She stood straight and looked at the intruder across the top of the press. “I’m the owner.”
As expected, the man’s eyes opened wide in apparent disbelief. The raised brows and confused expression were normal to her now. No one entering the office for the first time expected a woman to own a newspaper. Much less a young woman. At twenty-two, she was considered young by businessmen and old by most any man in search of a wife. Not that she wanted a husband. She could take care of herself.
“That’s not possible.” The handsome face rejected her claim. If she weren’t a journalist, she would scold herself for noticing his strong jaw, thick hair and cautious blue eyes. Since details were her business, she allowed herself to take in the cowboy’s lean build. Strong arms were encased in a suede coat. A leather vest covered his chest over a shirt of gray. Boots showing signs of hard work shifted on her floor. A Stetson swung in his hands.
“It is possible.” She put the notes on her desk and placed the magnifying glass on top of them. The wind wouldn’t send her on another merry chase. “And it’s true. Has been for the last two months.” She blew the hair out of her eyes and asked, “What can I do for you?”
He turned and looked at the words on the glass window. Taking one finger and underlining the backward lettering, he read out loud, “‘Jacob Ivy, Publisher.’ That’s who I’m looking for.”
The pain of her grief had eased into hollowness. Jacob’s death was the only reason she owned the paper. He’d been her mentor and teacher but mostly her only true friend. She sniffed and answered. “Mr. Ivy passed just two months ago. I’m the owner now.”
“Grump is dead?” He shook his head.
She saw it then. The breadth of his forehead and shape of his nose. He was Mr. Ivy—forty years younger. Why was he here? Why, after all the years his grandfather had reached out to him, had he come now? When it was too late.
“Jared Ivy?”
“How did you know my name?”
Mary Lou pointed to a frame on the wall near the front door. It held a tiny photograph of two men and a small boy. “That’s you and your father with Mr. Ivy.”
The only man who could take away the life she’d built in Pine Haven followed her direction to study the photograph. Could Jared Ivy really disrupt her situation now? The deed to the building was locked in the drawer of the heavy desk Mr. Ivy had worked at for all the years she’d known him.
“I’ve never seen a photograph of my father.” He lifted a hand and wiped the dust from the frame.
Mary Lou’s heart ached for him. As much as his appearance was a mystery—one that could be upsetting to her future—she knew what it was like to be without any knowledge of her father.
“Mr. Ivy told me about the accident that took your father’s life when you were a small child.”
“He did?” Jared Ivy turned back to her. “Perhaps you could tell me.”
“You don’t know?” Why wouldn’t a grown man know the circumstances of his father’s death?
“My mother refused to speak about him. She said it would cause me unnecessary pain as a child. Then, when I became an adult, she didn’t speak much about anything.” He said the words without judgment.
“He and your grandfather started the newspaper together as a family business. Your father was killed while working to construct this building. He fell from the top of the wall when the wood was being pulled up to put on the roof.”
Jared Ivy didn’t flinch or blink. Somehow he absorbed the death of his grandfather and the details of his father’s death without an outward reaction.
“What happened to Grump?”
“Doc Willis said his heart gave out.” She dealt in facts all day long, every day. Some people accused her of being cold, but direct was the only way she knew to be. Years of condensing a tragedy into a few paragraphs, or a big event into a couple of sentences, had taught her to be concise. She smiled at the memory of Mr. Ivy telling her it made her a good newspaper woman. Having loved Mr. Ivy like she did, it hurt to tell his story in so few words.
“I see.” He reached into the pocket of his vest. “If you’d be so kind as to direct me to the land office.”
“Do you intend to stay in town? I thought you came to see your grandfather.”
“I did come to see him.” He pulled a watch from the pocket, opened it to check the time and slid it back into its place. “But as that is not possible, I have other business to attend.”
Did she dare to probe beyond his vague answer? “I wonder you have other business in town. You must have arrived on the train today.”
“I did.”
The way he ignored her veiled query gave her cause for concern. What purpose did he have in Pine Haven with no living relatives here? “The land office is most likely closed this late on a Saturday.”
“Nevertheless, I need to know where it is.” He put a hand on the door latch. “If you’ve no wish to tell me, I’ll ask at the hotel.”
“It’s beyond the hotel, on the opposite side of the street.”
He thanked her and left. The Stetson went back on his head before he closed the door behind him.
Jared Ivy was nothing like his grandfather had imagined. More than once, Jacob Ivy had talked about how like his father the young Jared had been. The years since the man’s death had left the young Mr. Ivy with no hint of the warm and caring family she’d grown to love through his grandfather’s stories.
A looming deadline for the paper to be ready to print pushed the handsome man out of her thoughts. He could go to the land office, but he wouldn’t find Mr. Little there.
She only had a short amount of time to put the words of her last story for the coming edition on paper. Almost everyone in town had attended the harvest celebration on the previous evening. The festivities had been pleasant and the food good. The annual affair warranted a spot at the top of the page. First she’d pen the words and then the tedious task of setting the type for the press would begin. She hoped she’d left enough space to do the story justice.
Her words had formed numerous articles for several years, but the town was judging her differently as the owner. As a reporter with Jacob Ivy looking