But this—operating the newspaper in Wildwood Valley, being the only other publisher in all of Douglas County besides the Umpqua Ensign in Scottsburg—this would take more than mechanical know-how and long hours of work. Taking on the job of editor of the Wildwood Times would require insight and courage, moral fortitude and stamina, and—
And Cora Boult. Jessamyn rose and clasped both of the older woman’s work-worn hands in her own. “Please stay, Cora,” she whispered. “I’m all alone out here, and I’m going to need help.”
“Oh, child,” Cora Boult said on a sigh. “I never could resist a young’un with a problem.” She freed one hand and dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron. “Besides…” She sniffed in a quick breath. “I don’t get along too good with my sister in Deer Creek.”
Jessamyn laughed with relief. She could do it! With her father’s training and Cora’s help, the Wildwood Times could be the best newspaper in Douglas County.
“All them bedrooms upstairs are empty, Miss Jessamyn. Frank and me, we always planned on havin’ a family, but…” Her voice faltered. The plump widow spun on her sensible, high-laced shoes and started for the doorway. “Why don’t we go up and pick out the one you like best? The biggest one has yellow-striped wallpaper. The one next to it has blue and white flowers, and the one down at the end of the hall…”
Her voice faded from Jessamyn’s consciousness as she followed the older woman up the steep, narrow stairs to the second floor. Her brain whirled with ideas. She’d spend her days at the newspaper office, running down stories and doing interviews. At night she’d sit at her father’s battered oak desk and write her features and weekly editorials. And when she finished she’d come back here, to the home her father had bought for her.
Papa would be pleased. Somehow she knew this was what he would have wanted. It was what she had longed for all her young years—sharing her life with him. It hurt that he was gone. But if it was the last thing she did, she’d make him proud of her.
A shiver raced up her spine. Her first story, she decided, would be a feature on Sheriff Ben Kearney and his investigation of her father’s death.
“Miss Jessamyn?” Cora’s voice rang from somewhere ahead of her. “This here’s what I call the Yellow Room.”
The housekeeper’s muffled summons jerked her to attention. “Coming, Cora,” she called out.
Smoothing her skirt, Jessamyn moved toward the open bedroom door at the end of the hallway, her mind already composing her first headline.
The door of Frieder’s Mercantile swung open with a jingle. The bell mounted on the timber frame above Jessamyn’s head hiccuped a second welcome as she closed the wood portal. She paused on the threshold to gaze at the welter of supplies—yard goods, laces, curry combs and bristle brushes, boxed cigars, tobacco canisters, denim shirts and trousers, axes, shovels, even a crosscut saw. The shelves of merchandise reached all the way to the ceiling. Surely they stocked kerosene?
She inhaled a lungful of the heady air. Sacks of flour and sugar and dried beans lined the walls. A pickle barrel sat next to two wooden chairs flanking the black iron stove. Behind it she glimpsed a glass case with brightly colored penny candies displayed in oversize jars. The store smelled of coffee and sassafras and tobacco.
A pinafore-clad child of five or six with worn, dusty shoes that looked two sizes too big stretched one hand toward the glass case. “Want a candy,” she wailed as her mother tugged her toward the door.
“Hush, Alice. Not today. You had too many last week.” The woman nodded at Jessamyn as she swept past.
“How do you do,” Jessamyn called. “I’m Jessamyn Whittaker, the new editor of the Wildwood Times.”
The woman turned. A sharp-nosed, tanned face looked out from under a green checked sunbonnet. Jessamyn sent her warmest smile and waited.
“Hello, Miss Whittaker.” The woman extended a thin, work-worn hand. “Ella Kearney’s my name. This is my daughter, Alice. Come away from that case, Alice, and say hello to the lady.”
“’Lo,” the child whispered, still eyeing the fat glass jars in the candy display. “D’you like ginger drops?”
“Why, yes, I suppose I do.”
“Mr. Frieder has lots and lots of—”
“Come along, Alice. I’ve got bread rising.”
“Mrs. Kearney, wait! I don’t mean to pry, but is your husband Ben Kearney, the sheriff?”
“No. Ben’s a fine man, but I’m married to his brother, Carl. We live on the Double K, the Kearney brothers’ spread, about four miles north of town. Cattle ranch. Some horses, but mostly beeves. Ben lives in town.”
“I see.” An irrepressible bubble of curiosity rose in Jessamyn’s chest. Ben Kearney evidently preferred life as a lawman rather than a rancher. She wondered why. And, she wondered with an odd flicker of interest, was he not married? Her experience as a newspaper reporter told her to file this question away for later reference.
Ella Kearney yanked her daughter toward the door. “Good morning to you, Miss Whittaker.”
The bell jangled as the pair stepped out onto the board sidewalk. Alice cast a wistful backward glance at the candy case just as the door swung shut.
A broad, smiling man appeared behind the counter, good will beaming from his shiny face. “What can I do for you, ma’am? Maybe like some ginger drops? Young Miss Alice is usually my best customer, but this afternoon her mama too busy.”
“I’m Jessamyn Whittaker, and I need some kerosene to clean the printing press at the newspaper office.”
“Ah! You are the Miss Whittaker who comes from the East? I am Otto Frieder. My wife, Anna-Marie, is in the back. You wait.” He disappeared, then emerged from behind a curtained doorway with a plump, dimpled woman of about thirty in tow. “Anna-Marie,” he said with obvious pride.
The woman extended both hands past her distended abdomen and squeezed Jessamyn’s fingers. “We are so happy you come to Wildwood Valley.”
“I—Thank you, Mrs. Frieder.”
“We are much sorry about your father.”
“Thank you again.”
Anna-Marie immediately curved her palms over her belly. “Baby comes in just a few weeks,” she said with a shy smile. “Our first.”
Jessamyn looked into the round blue eyes of the woman facing her. How happy she looked. How eager for life. In just a few years the storekeeper’s wife would have three or four young ones hanging on to her skirts, and then she would look exhausted. Worn out, like Mama.
“About the kerosene, Mr. Frieder.”
“Ah, yes.” Otto turned toward the back of the store where oak barrels lined one wall. “Kerosene…kerosene,” he muttered. “Cigars…cartridges…nails…no kerosene. We just run out. Shipment is again late.”
“I will also need newsprint and ink for the paper.”
Otto sighed. “That I must order from Chicago—will take two, maybe three weeks.”
“Three weeks!”
“Maybe four, even. Come by train to Omaha, then by wagon over the mountains.”
Four weeks! Jessamyn groaned. That was a whole month! How could she publish a newspaper without ink and newsprint? If she was frugal, her father’s supply