Jessamine Phyllis McMahon, Bear Grass Springs’ recently arrived resident and reporter, nodded to a neighbor as she wiped down the windows of the newspaper office. The latest edition of her newspaper was on full display, and she wanted those passing by to easily read the headlines. However, “Delinquent Cow Wanders Main Street” proved of little interest. After another pair walked past with only a cursory glance at the paper in the window, she sighed.

During her first week in town last month, she had published a newspaper daily to drum up interest. Now, a month after her arrival, she printed a twice-weekly paper, and this edition did little to elicit curiosity.

Her print shop, located next to the bank, was often overlooked as people rushed to complete a transaction at the neighboring business. Or, she mused, the townsfolk were too eager to arrive at the Boudoir, the town’s whorehouse, which stood just past the bank and at the edge of town. She glanced across the dusty main thoroughfare—aptly named Main Street—to the town’s most popular saloon, the Stumble-Out. The man she had coined the town’s most disreputable gentleman was not among the men loitering outside, and she quickly lost interest in those wandering in and out of the saloon.

After a final swipe to polish away an imaginary streak, she reentered her print shop. When she had first arrived, a year’s worth of old papers and notes had been stashed in corners and crannies of the one-story building. After collecting most of the excess paper, she decided to keep it on one side of the large room to use as fuel for her fire in the winter. She walked along the front of the shop, with its tall shelves and bookcases blocking the view of the back of the shop and forming a sense of a hallway. Her desk sat between two windows, and a large flat table sat opposite the press where she hand set the newspaper with metal letters.

To the far side of the room, near one window, the press stood on a small raised dais. A lamp hung over the press for dark days or when she wanted to work at night. Covered buckets filled with ink sat near the press, and reams of paper were piled on the floor to one side of her desk. Long rows of wires, like multiple clotheslines, hung across the room for drying the paper after printing. Currently no papers were there, as they were stacked by the door, ready for purchase.

She sat at her desk, pushing aside a stack of article ideas with corresponding research and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. On one side she made a column for what she considered a success in her newspaper so far, and in the other she wrote what she thought were challenges. For success, she wrote N&N. Her News and Noteworthy section that came out once a week garnered the most interest from the townsfolk. It made that edition of the newspaper outsell the others three to one.

Her articles about national affairs and global events were rarely remarked upon. However, she always received letters to the editor about the N&N section, along with suggestions for the next edition. “I’ll expand that section to include it in every newspaper, and I’ll make it longer in each paper. I should have known to play to the townsfolk’s vanity and need for gossip,” she muttered.

She tapped her pencil on the sheet of paper as she brainstormed other topics that would interest the residents in a small Montana town, with a mining camp in the mountains above and an expansive valley below filled with cattle and cattlemen. She left that thought for later and wrote it in the challenges column. Little interest in nonlocal affairs. No distribution network. Questionable literacy of townsfolk.

She dropped her pencil and jerked around as the door burst open. She met the irate gaze of the man she had termed the town’s “most disreputable gentleman” since her arrival. “Hello, Mr. MacKinnon. It’s lovely to see you today.”

Ewan MacKinnon strolled into her office with the grace of a panther. His blond hair with hints of red in it hung to his shoulders, and he was in need of a shave. In his anger, he forgot to doff his hat to her, and he took it off, tracing the brim between his long fingers. Irate brown eyes met her cognac-colored gaze, and his glare intensified as he saw her poorly concealed amusement. “Must ye write about me in every damn edition of yer newspaper?” he demanded.

“You know as well as I do that an N&N isn’t in this paper,” she said with a triumphant smile.

“Oh, ye act all coy. I ken what ye’re doin’. Ye’re tryin’ to make me out to be the town fool. But ye willna succeed. I promise ye that.” He took a deep breath. “How can ye write that the cow got the better of me and that I’m lookin’ for a rematch?”

She giggled and looked away. “Forgive me. I thought that was what truly occurred. Did you or did you not interact with the cow? And did you not end up in the middle of a cow pie after it … nudged you with its behind?”

He reddened. “Aye, that is what occurred. But ye dinna have to write about it and tell the entire world!”

She laughed. “I doubt the world is interested in the meaningless antics of a cow in our little town of Bear Grass Springs, Mr. MacKinnon. From what I’ve heard, the rest of the world is busy mourning the death of P. T. Barnum’s giant elephant, Jumbo, in a train wreck. I’d be thankful you rate over the death of an elephant in the townsfolk’s estimation.”

“Ye are a daft woman,” Ewan said as he rolled his eyes.

“That may be, but, from what I heard, you had quite a cotillion of women eager to aid you as you struggled to rise.”

He flushed red as he turned away from her.

“It’s such a pity you pulled Miss Jameson onto your lap rather than allowing her to help you up.” She bit her lip as his back stiffened and his hold on his hat tightened. “I don’t know as her dress will ever recover.”

After a moment, he spun to face her. “Yer articles, an’ the actions of women in this town who should ken better, willna force me to marry a woman I dinna like.”

She smiled. “Then I suggest you be more careful about whose hand you accept for aid.”

“I could barely see!”

She cleared her throat as though swallowing a chuckle. “Yes, I did hear about the unfortunate, uh, splatter that covered your face.”

He ran a hand over his jaw but not before she saw a hint of a smile. “Ye enjoy this, do ye no’? The small-town antics that drive most of us insane?”

She nodded. “It’s what keeps a small town going and knits everyone together. I have to say, it was a difficult article to write as the Jamesons will not speak with me, and the cow was more interested in chewing her cud. And you, well, I know better than to ask you for an interview. So I listened to others describe what they saw as I ate my meals at the café.”

Ewan snorted. “Why should the Jamesons speak with ye when ye started speculatin’ about Helen’s respectability in one of yer first papers?” Any humor hidden in his gaze disappeared as he sobered. “Ye can write articles about me, an’ I will no’ be affected. I’m a man. But ye canna write about a lass. ’Tisn’t right, Miss McMahon.”

“If she is acting outside the bounds of propriety, Helen is fair game for a reporter.”

Ewan cocked his head to one side as he stared at her. The light glinting in through the windows cast a reddish tint to his dark blond hair. “Do ye no’ care what ye could do to that girl? Do ye not ken how hard her life already is, livin’ with her mother and brother?”

Jessamine shrugged. “Life is hard, Mr. MacKinnon. It’s the one truth we should all understand and accept.”

He took a step toward her as his gaze hardened. “Aye, ’tis. But that means ye should no’ go around attemptin’ to make it harder for those who canna defend themselves. Yer cow story is entertainin’ until the point ye make Helen a laughingstock. Then ye go too far. Ye always go too far.”

His irate glare met her indignant, defiant stare, and then he spun on his heel and stormed away. The door rattled as it slammed shut behind him.

She picked up her pencil from her desk and sighed. “You’re wrong, Mr. MacKinnon. I never go far enough.”

* * *

That afternoon Jessamine locked the front door to her newspaper office and walked along the town’s boardwalk. The mid-September sun shone brightly, and she drew down her wide-brimmed hat to shield her eyes from the glare. It was a tactic she had learned in her early days as a journalist as it made her appear a meek woman, and many were willing to speak freely as she lingered in front of storefronts. She smiled as the strategy had proved as successful in Bear Grass Springs as in New York or Saint Louis. However, little of interest was to be learned as she walked past the bakery, café, and Watering Hole Saloon on her way to the General Store.

She jumped out of the way as a patron was propelled from inside the saloon through the open door by two men. She frowned, as she knew them to be cardsharks and reticent to speak with a reporter, with or without her hat. She heard the man mumble about going to the barbershop farther down the boardwalk and next to the General Store, but he refused to say more after he saw her.

She smiled and continued her journey to Tobias Sutton’s General Store, or the Merc, as the townsfolk called it. When the bell over the door jingled upon her arrival, she hid a contented smile. The Merc, the larger of the two mercantiles in town, had everything she could wish to purchase. Tobias was the only one of the two general store proprietors who had successfully ordered ink for her after the unfortunate spill by her former assistant. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin as she walked inside, her ochre satin skirt shining in the sunlight. She smiled at the other woman present, Ewan’s sister, Sorcha MacKinnon, ignoring the woman’s scorn.

After Sorcha left, Jessamine walked with controlled grace to the front counter. Under the glass she saw delicate lace and a china teacup. “Are you hoping the townsfolk will invest in the finer things with their hard-earned money?”

He met her mocking gaze with a scowl. “Miss McMahon. There is no reason that a respectable wife, living in a town such as ours, should not expect or deserve such beautiful refinements.”

Jessamine laughed. “That’s not what makes a woman stay.” She raised an eyebrow. “As you well know.”

His gaze became arctic as he watched her. “You have no right to speak to me in such a manner.” He looked her over from head to toe. “You should be restricted to the whore’s hours for shopping.”

She laughed and shook her head. “That’s rich, coming from a man who’s rarely at home at night because he’s so busy at the Boudoir.” She leaned forward, a light flush on her neck and cheeks enhancing the red of her hair. “I may be a reporter, but I have honor.”

“As do I, miss.”

She studied him. “I’ve recently learned differently. I wonder if your family believes the same?” She smiled as he stilled. “You shouldn’t cast aspersions when you are guilty of your own sins, Mr. Sutton.”

He paled. “What would a woman like you know of such a situation?”

She tapped her finger on the polished glass. “More than you could imagine. Treat me with respect, and your story stays buried. Don’t cross me, Tobias.” She watched as his eyes flared at the threat and the use of his first name.

He stiffened and then nodded, his gaze flicking to the door as the bell overhead chimed. “What can I do for you today, Miss McMahon?” he asked in his most obsequious voice.

She placed her order, her gaze filled with a warning and a promise for retribution if he attempted to cross her. He nodded his understanding and glared at her as she left the store.

She walked to the nearby café for an early supper. Although she had a small kitchen in the rear of her print shop, she rarely ate there. She smiled at the locals already gathered for an evening meal and chose a table close to two men whose loud voices carried.

Harold Tompkins, the husband half of the duo who ran the Sunflower Café, approached with a glass of water and a friendly smile. He accepted her order of fried trout, boiled potatoes, and pickled beets. He raised an eyebrow as she stared straight ahead as she listened to the conversations around her. After a moment, when she failed to engage in conversation with him, he sighed and entered the kitchen.

Jessamine half smiled as the men behind her argued.

One with a baritone voice said, “I tell you. I saw it again last night!”

His friend, with a slightly higher-pitched voice, snorted. “It was the moonshine Herbert poured down yer gullet. That weren’t no ghost.”

Baritone said, “You got no idea what I saw!”

Her gaze jerked upward as a plate thunked in front of her. “Hello, Mrs. Tompkins.” She smiled as Irene Tompkins watched her with unveiled curiosity and waited for Jessamine to pick up her fork.

“Hello, Miss McMahon. Nice of you to stop in here again.” She shook her head as the men behind Jessamine dug their heels in about what they had or had not seen. “Those two will argue until they’re dead an’ buried.” She nodded to Jessamine. “I wouldn’t look to them as a source for any of your stories. Neither of them knows east from west, and they barely know how to don pantaloons.”

The sound of scraping wood sounded as Irene pulled out a chair and sat across from Jessamine. “You know, miss, I’ve always considered what I heard here as a sort of sacred confessional.” She stared hard at Jessamine when she snorted in disbelief. “You might think that a ridiculous comment, but it’s true. It’s none of my business what others discuss while they eat a meal, and I have no right to bandy it about town.”

“That is because you are the proprietor of this fine establishment,” Jessamine said. “I, on the other hand, am a reporter. Nothing that is said in my presence is deemed sacred.”

Irene huffed out an agitated breath. “You are wrong. However, that’s a lesson you must learn for yourself.” She paused a moment and then smiled as she watched her husband chat with a group of miners who had come to town for entertainment. They had arrived for an evening meal after a barber’s visit as their beards were trimmed and their hair wet around the collar.

“He seems a good man,” Jessamine murmured.

Irene chuckled. “No need to sound so surprised. He is a good man, and I’m thankful he’s put up with me all these years. Many men wouldn’t have.”

The reporter watched the older woman with frank curiosity. “Why? You are an astute businesswoman. I would think any man would value such a trait.”

Irene sighed. “Perhaps that is an attribute valued here in the Territory. However, most men would want a docile woman, content to sit at home, knitting, cooking, and caring for a family. I always resented being excluded, and Harold understood.” Her knowing gaze met Jessamine’s guarded one. “If you are very fortunate, you will meet such a man one day.”

Jessamine shook her head and laughed. “I highly doubt that. Few would celebrate a journalist in the family. And few men appreciate a woman with intelligence.”

The older woman tapped Jessamine’s hand and rose. “If you weren’t so intent on showing all of us how superior you were, perhaps you’d have a better chance at forming friendships.” She moved away to the kitchen to prepare dinners as more diners entered the café.

Jessamine sipped her coffee and ate her slice of cake, her thoughts distant as she was unable to shut out the echo of Irene’s words.

* * *

The following day Ewan strode to Warren Clark’s office and, before he entered, scraped his boots on the boot cleaner outside the door bracketed by two windows. Warren was the town lawyer, and his office had a large front room with a desk along one wall where he conducted most of his business and a potbellied stove in the corner. A doorway led to a small back room that he used as a private office when discussing delicate or confidential aspects of a case.

Ewan nodded to his second eldest brother, Alistair, and then to the lawyer, Warren Clark. Ewan gave the town banker, Mr. Ambrose Finlay, his mischievous smile before he joined them at the round table Warren had set up in his large front office space near the small stove. It pumped out warmth on this cold September day, and Ewan glared at the banker for taking the seat nearest the heat.

Alistair noted his glare and fought a smile. “’Tis typical.”

“Yes, typical of you to be late,” Mr. Finlay said as he glared back at Ewan. “I remain unconvinced as to the necessity of this wastrel’s presence. Simply because he thought of the whore tax, due to his penchant for lascivious activities, does not indicate we should continue to consult him.”

Ewan sat back in his chair with his characteristic impish half smile as he stared at the affronted banker. “Perhaps if ye focused less on the cut of yer clothes an’ more on the town and its needs, ye’d come up with similar ideas.”

“Listen, you little whelp, we did just fine until you came along. We were able to have our meetings at the café.”

“Aye, where ye never paid for a single meal,” Alistair said with a raised eyebrow. He glared at Mr. Finlay until he slouched in sullen silence. “My brother has ideas on how to raise revenue for this town. Revenue we need for projects to improve this town.”

“I want this to be minuted. I am deeply offended that my council members believe I would shirk my responsibilities to pay my part of a bill. I thought the committee’s bills were covered by a fund supplied by the townsfolk.”

Warren pinched the bridge of his nose. “How in God’s name would there be a fund to feed us meals when there’s no money for anything else? It wouldn’t be honorable to accept the money even if there were such a fund!” He took a deep breath. “And I am not minuting any of this because the meeting has not been called to order.” He glared at all present, spending extra time on Ewan.

After a few moments’ pause, Warren said, “Now that those preliminaries are complete, I call this meeting to order.” He looked at a sheet of paper in front of him where he had scribbled a rough agenda. “Mr. Finlay, would you be so kind as to inform us of the revenue we have collected in the first weeks of the new tax?” The tax meant that a woman employed at the Boudoir had to shop at specific hours at the mercantiles or face a tax. She could not speak to townsfolk, or be taxed. Finally, the Madam had to pay a small tax each month on profits earned at her Boudoir.

Mr. Finlay sat tall, his satin burgundy waistcoat bulging over his paunch. “Regardless of the revenue generated, it has been a tremendous boon to this town to show that vice is not tolerated.” He speared Ewan with a glare. “Those living on the fringes of society should remain there, and we have shown the respectable women of our esteemed town our deep regard.”

Ewan sighed as he slumped in his chair. “For God’s sake, man, we all ken every man in town has visited the Boudoir.”

Mr. Finlay turned beet red with his agitation. “Our women do not need to be exposed to such depravity!” He took a deep breath. “In the first weeks of the tax, we have raised fifty dollars.” He smiled at the success of the revenue-raising venture.

Alistair nodded. “Fifty dollars in nearly a month isna bad, although it seems a little low to me.” He studied the banker. “Was there a charge for managing the fees?”

Mr. Finlay shrugged. “There are always charges when managing money.” He shrugged again as though matters were out of his control. “How else would you expect a bank in such a small town to succeed?”

Warren glared at the banker. “You can read the contract and the proposition about the tax as well as I can, Ambrose. There was a clause in there for no fees to be collected by your bank for some time.” He met the banker’s blank stare. “Don’t make me take you to court. You will not like it, and you will not win.”

Ewan looked at the three men who formed the Bear Grass Springs’ Improvement Committee as they glared at each other before focusing on the banker. “How were ye voted onto the committee? Ye seem to only have yer best interests at heart, not the town’s.”

“My interests are the town’s interests. Unlike my two uninformed colleagues, who fail to grasp such a notion, the townsfolk are more aware of the realities of life in a town such as ours.” Ambrose fingered his satin waistcoat.

Ewan laughed. “I wonder what the journalist would do, should she hear about yer actions.” He smiled as Mr. Finlay paled. “I dinna think the townsfolk would take kindly to hearin’ the banker, who has many of the townsfolk’s prized possessions in a safe as collateral to debts owed, is robbin’ them of money meant to improve the town.”

“How dare you imply any wrongdoing,” Ambrose sputtered. “I merely read the contract incorrectly.”

“‘No’ is a fairly easy word to comprehend,” Warren muttered. He sighed and raked a hand through his brown hair. “I will ensure we sort out the tax issue, and I will report back to the committee the full findings at a later date. If there are continued problems with the tax collection, we will find another solution. Perhaps a second bank in town would aid us, just as a second general store has.”

Alistair and Ewan shared a grin as Ambrose’s eyes grew rounder at Warren’s threat.

Warren cleared his throat. “Now, Ewan, if you would care to share with us and list a few of the ideas you have for raising further revenue in the town?”

Ewan sat taller and leaned his elbows on the table. “My ideas are no’ very different from what has already been implemented.” He met the banker’s scoff and indignant roll of his eyes and continued. “I believe that a lot of money could be made if ye were to tax the saloons.” He took a deep breath. “And if ye were to tax gambling matches and games. Men spend a lot of money on those matches, and the town should benefit from the winnings.”

Warren frowned. “Wouldn’t the town benefit twice? Once from the tax by the man who has won, and then again when he buys a drink at the saloon, and his drink is taxed? When we tax the saloon, it will retax the man’s money.”

Ewan shrugged. “That is an argument you could make about everything and thus never tax a thing. However, many of the poker players are passing through. I’ve known quite a few who drink little and win quite a bit. The town is losin’ money on those men.”

“Will the tax no’ encourage the men to go to other towns, rather than spend time in Bear Grass Springs?” Alistair asked.

“This is Montana Territory. There aren’t many towns nearby.” Warren paused. “I think we could make an argument to tax gambling. I fear too many would protest an alcohol tax and believe we are overstepping our authority.”

“What about a hotel tax?” Ewan asked. “Few who lodge at the hotel are local.”

Ambrose glared at Ewan. “You do not have a head for business, boy. You will destroy any enterprise we have with your taxes.”

Ewan shrugged. “I’ve thought about this quite a bit. I canna say I’m a fan of taxes. But I see no other way to raise the funds we need for town improvements.”

“Those who are able will be generous,” Ambrose sputtered.

Alistair rolled his eyes, and Ewan snorted before speaking. “If we wait for those who barely ken how to spell the word, never mind the meaning of it”—he glared at the banker—“then nothing will ever be accomplished.”

The banker flicked his hand as though what Ewan said was a mere triviality. “It’s nearly impossible to know if we are receiving the correct money from the Madam. How will we ever know if we are receiving the correct money from the saloons or the hotel?”

Ewan shook his head. “I dinna ken. I supply the ideas. ’Tis yer job to implement.”

Alistair scrubbed at his head. “Any businessman worth his weight would have two sets of ledgers,” he muttered. He watched as the banker shifted in his seat. He ignored Warren’s surprised glance. “Do ye think smugglin’ an’ the like wasna common in Scotland?”

Mr. Finlay shook his fingers at the two brothers. “That’s why you have such nefarious minds and can think like common criminals!”

Alistair sat forward with his hands clenched together in front of him. “I would remind ye that I was no’ the one found to have swindled the town out of money!” He took a deep breath.

“Bein’ smart enough to outwit those keen on keepin’ all their cash for their own benefit doesna make one a criminal,” Ewan said.

Warren shook his head in dismay. “I’ll look into the town bylaws. It was easy to tax the whores and the whorehouse as they are out of the bounds of propriety. However, with a gambling tax instituted, other businesses will begin to worry that we will tax them to help raise funds.”

Ewan shrugged. “’Twould only be fair to tax a small percentage of profits or a tax on sales for the town’s improvement.”

“Yes, but how would you enforce it?” Warren asked. “Would you be willing to participate in this tax scheme?”

“Ludicrous scheme,” Ambrose muttered.

“Aye. The town is fine now but ’twill fall apart if we do nothin’,” Ewan said. He and the banker shared an intense stare filled with loathing. “I believe we should help each other succeed an’ no’ hoard our success.”

Mr. Finlay slammed his hand onto the table and rose. “I’ve had enough of this whippersnapper’s disregard!” He grabbed his coat and stormed from the room, the door rattling as it slammed behind him.

Warren gave Ewan a reproachful look. “You could learn a bit of tact, Ewan.”

“Why bother with one like him? He’s already admitted to robbin’ the town of hard-earned money. I canna feel badly for showin’ him my dislike.”

Alistair sighed as he stretched out his legs. He held his hands toward the warmth of the potbellied stove. “At least we have more heat, now he’s gone.”

Warren laughed. “Yes, now that he’s not blocking the stove.” He sighed. “And it’s a glorious day as we don’t have to pay for his meal.”

Alistair met Warren’s troubled gaze. “Harold wasna happy we were havin’ the meeting here. He likes listenin’ in, although we never accomplish much.”

Ewan shook his head. “Harold should be on the committee, not Mr. Finlay.” He glared out the door as though still able to see the banker.

Warren rose and entered a back room that he used as a private office. He emerged with cups in one hand and a coffeepot in the other. After pouring the coffee, he placed the metal pot on top of the stove in the main room and sat again.

“Heaven,” Ewan murmured as he took a sip. “Sorcha’s is improvin’, but she’ll never brew a decent cup.”

Warren chuckled. “I’d have thought that Annabelle would have taught her by now.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow and fought a smile. “Nae. Nae such luck for those living in Cailean’s house.” He winked at his brother. “Leticia makes a fine cup of coffee. And I hear Miss Jameson does too.”

Ewan sputtered into his mug and glared at his brother. “Ye ken I’ve no interest in the woman. It doesna matter what that vicious journalist wrote.”

Alistair glared at Warren a moment. “Can ye no’ prevent that woman from writing such stories about us?” He let out a frustrated sigh. “About Ewan?”

Warren tapped his fingers on the side of his mug before he took another sip. “It seems she is taken with young Ewan. If you had shown her courtesy when she had arrived last month, you may not now find yourself in her journalistic sights.”

Ewan growled. “The woman misrepresented who she was! Ye ken we all thought we were gettin’ a man. Why would we have thought J.P. McMahon was a woman?” He raised his hand as though proving his point. “What woman uses two initials for her name?”

Warren shrugged. “A woman who has had to be intrepid enough to survive in this world. A world run and controlled by men.” He met Ewan’s frustrated gaze. “She knew well enough that she would be denied this post, even though she is overqualified for it, simply because she is a woman. I cannot blame her for her actions.”

“Her deceit,” Alistair said. “Ye are a very forgiving man, Warren.”

“About some things perhaps.” He watched Ewan. “You have to admit, you do make the paper more lively. And she’s yet to report on any falsehoods.”

Ewan snorted. “She exaggerates, tellin’ just enough of the truth so that I canna complain so much as to shut her down.”

Warren rose and filled their cups before topping his off. “Would you want to shut down the paper? It’s brought lively discourse to the town.”

“Just wait until she attacks someone ye care about, Warren. Then ye will no’ consider it innocent or amusin’,” Ewan said. “I can handle being the focus of her attention. I look for her snide comments every edition and then prepare for the banter of my men. But she goes too far when she harms the reputations of others in town.”

Warren set his cup on the table and held his hands over his stomach, as though attempting to appear relaxed and to not clench them. “She only wrote the truth about how Miss Jameson acted.” He forced a smile. “You protest loudly on behalf of the young woman. Perhaps you wish to hide your feelings for her.”

Ewan stared at him, slack-jawed, momentarily unable to speak.

“Besides, it seems Miss Jameson has an interest in you. That should be what matters as J.P. will not refrain from repeatedly mentioning it to her readers.” Warren watched Ewan intently.

Alistair nodded. “I believe that’s Ewan’s point. The reporter will harm Miss Jameson even more than Miss Jameson harms herself. ’Tis not right or proper for a journalist to act in such a way.”

Warren shook his head. “She is not printing lies or libel. I cannot bring suit against her. If Miss Jameson continues to act in a reckless manner, I can do nothing to save her.”

Ewan slumped in his chair. “My brothers were clever enough to avoid Helen’s snare. I will be too.”

Warren looked into the depths of his coffee cup. “I hope you are.” He cleared his throat. “Another matter has come to my attention, and I thought I would share it with you as I’m afraid it may affect Cailean and Annabelle.”

Ewan and Alistair leaned in, concern furrowing their brows at the mention of their eldest brother and his wife, Annabelle. Cailean ran the livery with Alistair and their partner John Runs from Bears Renfrew, and Annabelle owned the bakery. “What is it?” Ewan asked.

“I learned this morning that our doctor has left town.” He met their panicked expressions. “I know that Annabelle is in expectation of a fortuitous event months from now, and I can only imagine how this will worry her. However, I have been assured that his replacement is en route and will arrive within days.”

Alistair sat back, dumbstruck. “We must have an accomplished doctor. Cailean and Annabelle suffered enough last year.” His eyes shone with fear as he recalled Cailean’s torment at nearly losing Annabelle after she had miscarried their first child the previous fall.

“As I said, our doctor, who left to expand his practice and fortunes in Butte, has guaranteed that the new doctor is as highly trained. However, I have yet to learn where he attended medical school.”

“But ye have received letters of recommendation?” Ewan asked.

Warren flushed. “I have. But we know that those can be forged.” He flicked a glance at Alistair who glowered at Warren’s reference to his wife, Leticia’s, deception that was discovered earlier in the summer.

Ewan frowned at the memory. Leticia had forged letters of recommendation to obtain her Bear Grass Springs’ teaching post in an attempt to escape her abusive first husband. Although she had cared for and taught a widowed man’s children in Saint Louis upon first escaping her husband, her letters of recommendations had stated she had more experience than she truly had. However, she had taught admirably for years in Bear Grass Springs before her duplicity about her experience and marital status was discovered. After overcoming Alistair’s anger, she and Alistair had wed, and they were raising her daughter, Hortence, together. The townsfolk had forgiven her the deception due to their respect for Alistair and the previous regard they had for her as the schoolteacher.

“I willna have her actions held against her again, Warren.” Alistair glared at his friend.

“I fully understand your wishes, Alistair, but the townsfolk will not so easily forget her transgressions. And they are less inclined to believe letters due to what happened with Leticia.” He shrugged. “It is understandable.”

“Then how will we ken if he’s an accomplished doctor?” Ewan asked.

Warren shook his head. “Doc was a man I trusted, although he had an interesting work ethic. He considered some patients more worthy of his time and expertise than others, which isn’t how I imagined a doctor in a small town to be. I’m hopeful this doctor he has recruited for us will be as talented but with a greater sense of integrity.”

“Aye, in that I’ll agree with ye,” Ewan said. “I’d let that wee demon in the print shop ken what ye know. Would be good for the townsfolk to understand a new doc is on the way. It may make his arrival easier and will ease any fears at the uncertainty.”

“That is a good idea. And it may distract her from you for an edition.” He laughed as Ewan scowled.

Ewan swallowed his coffee in a few gulps before rising. “Good luck determinin’ how to tax the town’s businesses. I’m glad I’m not ye.” He smiled. “I must return to work. Winter comes sooner than we’d like.” He slapped his brother on his back, nodded to Warren, and grabbed his hat before he slipped outside.

* * *

Jessamine glanced up at the handwritten article on her desk as her hands moved with lightning speed over the tiny metals letters, recreating the words in a metal proof set in a special tray as she prepared the paper for print. For the article to print properly, the proof had to be laid out in reverse. She smiled as her mind had no difficulty envisioning the words backward, and she was a skilled hand-cast printer. After a few hours bent over the metal tray, she stood and arched her back, groaning as it cracked.

She took a sip of water and then carried the metal tray of letters to the printing press, where she rubbed a thin coat of black ink over it. After she set a piece of newsprint over it, she lowered its cover, moved it to the press, and turned the handle on the press. After counting to ten, she released the press and lifted the cover. She smiled as she read the headline “Fears Mount Silver Played Out in Obsidian Camp.” She clipped it to a clothesline and continued producing this edition of the paper. She had calculated that fifty copies would suffice. For now. She hoped demand for her newspaper would grow and that she would soon distribute it to the miners in the camp and to the numerous ranchers down the valley.

She huffed out a breath at the thought of calling her one-sided broadsheet a newspaper. She knew calling it such was misleading; however, for marketing purposes, she would continue as she had begun.

When the copies were printed and hung to dry, she arched her shoulders again and sighed as she stretched them after hours of work. She scrubbed at her fingers, dirtied with ink, in a clean bucket of water set in her kitchen area and then took off her apron.

“I need an assistant,” she muttered as she moved her neck from side to side with a groan. “A competent one.” She grimaced when she thought of her first attempt at hiring an assistant. Upon arriving in town, she had interviewed the few young men not in the mining camp and decided to hire Horace Martin. She grunted in disgust as she thought of young Horace. Tall, gangly, with an inability to make his limbs move in the direction he wanted them to, he had nearly set the print shop on fire when he had bumped into an oil lamp and then knocked over a bucket of ink.

Far worse was his incessant chatter. She had thought she could survive her loss of peace, but, when she learned his gossip was costing her her livelihood, she had fired him. Few in town saw the need to purchase her paper when they could speak with him and learn the paper’s contents free of charge. Now she was forced to run the entire enterprise on her own.

She smiled, wiping her hands dry as the front door opened. “Hello, Mr. Clark.”

“Miss McMahon,” Warren said with a nod. “How are you?” He glanced at the broadsheet and then shook his head as he read the headline. “Who’d you hear such rubbish from?”

Jessamine’s smile turned cagey. “I never reveal my sources.”

He met her gaze, his eyes squinting slightly, as she failed to fidget under his harsh stare. “You can’t believe everything you hear at the saloons or in the café. Some will speak in hyperbole simply to see their stories in print.”

She laughed. “I vet my stories. When numerous townsfolk speak of a similar concern, I deem it a story worth investigating. Unless it is one I witness myself.”

“Such a story, especially if it were true, could lead to panic. This town does not need a panic, J.P. It needs stability and a banker willing to be as generous as possible.”

She snorted. “That man doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He thinks it is spelled s-t-i-n-g-y. I remain hopeful I am never in need of his aid. It’s my unfortunate luck that I’m his neighbor.”

Warren waved away her words. “He is the only banker we have in town for now”—he raised an eyebrow as her eyes lit with interest—“and thus we must deal with him. Stories like this will only lead to fears that the Recession, which is easing, will return.”

“I heard it wasn’t as severe here as in other parts of the country,” Jessamine said.

“Oh, it was hard enough on the common townsfolk. And it lasted longer than other downturns.” He watched her with disappointment. “You should not feed fear, J.P.”

She shrugged. “I refuse to print falsehoods and fairy tales.”

Warren glared at her a moment and then sighed. “I didn’t come here today to argue with you about your upcoming stories. I wanted you to be aware that we are to have a new town doctor.”

Her interest in the potential for a new banker faded, as did her irritation about Warren’s criticism of her reporting about the Obsidian silver mines. “Really? What’s his name? Where does he come from?”

“He is Dr. Chester, and he comes from the state of New York. Upstate New York.”

She frowned. “Why would he come here?”

Warren smiled. “That is a question we ask about all of us, and, for some of us, it remains a mystery.” He nodded with approval as she shifted under his gaze. “Now, J.P.” He paused at her dramatic sigh.

She raised an eyebrow. “I could set my watch by your visits.”

He frowned and took off his hat as he moved farther into her print shop. He ducked under a line of drying broadsheets, maintaining a pristine suit free of ink stains. “If so, a wise person would cease activities that would lead to the arrival of the lawyer.”

She rolled her eyes as she fought an amused smile. “Mr. MacKinnon ran to you, complaining again, and now you are here to exhort me to write namby-pamby stories.” She raised her hands, palm up. “Am I incorrect?”

“This time your story affects more than just a MacKinnon, Miss McMahon. You should have more sense than to slander a young woman.”

“And you should know better than to use a word like slander when it is not called for. I did not slander her. I reported what occurred.” She stood taller as she recited facts. “Did she or did she not offer her hand?” Her eyes gleamed as his shoulders stiffened. “Did she or did she not fall on his lap?” Her smile spread as he glared at her. “Did she or did she not tarry upon attempting to rise from such a position?”

He swore under his breath and paced away. “Dammit, J.P., you need to cease antagonizing everyone in town. Write stories that you consider namby-pamby for a bit, but at least you’ll be a part of this town. Accepted.” He stilled as he saw a flash of longing in her gaze that was quickly masked. “You have to know that, if you continue on this path, few will wish to speak with you in the future.”

She smirked. “There will always be someone eager to speak with a journalist. The thought of seeing one’s name or one’s words in a paper is a thrill few are willing to pass up.”

He exhaled a huff of breath. “Your cynicism isn’t becoming, Jessamine.”

She laughed. “I know, but you like me anyway.”

He half smiled and nodded. “Be careful what you write. You are angering too many, too quickly. Write something else that will cause the town to talk, other than speculations about their neighbors’ actions.” He paused a moment as he saw her sober. “Can you attempt that?” When she nodded, he put on his hat. “I wish you good day.”

She plopped onto a chair after his departure, clinging to her sense of pride at a job well done, staring at her drying broadsheets, and fighting loneliness.