Printer in Petticoats by Lynna Banning

had always liked females of any age, especially smart ones.
    Every afternoon Noralee’s long, slim neck bent over her type stick, which brought Eli’s avuncular approval. “She’s not too purty, but she kin set type faster ’n lightning, and she kin shore make me chuckle.”
    Cole was growing remote as a fence post. During the day they sashayed around each other in the overcrowded Lark office, but Cole began spending most of his time elsewhere. Writing, she supposed. He kept Noralee busy setting type every day after school, and on Saturdays she spent all day cleaning ink off his overworked Ramage press.
    Jess’s nerves finally snapped when she read the Tuesday edition of the Lark . Cole had covered the fire at her office, writing with eloquence about lawlessness and violence. But the headline on the editorial page of his latest issue made her fists clench.
    Sheriff Silver Fails
    Law Exam
    Jessamine crumpled the page into a tight ball and marched down to the restaurant, where she knew Cole was eating breakfast. She tossed the scrunched-up editorial page right in the middle of his scrambled eggs.
    â€œWhat right do you have spreading lies like this?” she demanded.
    He set his coffee cup on its saucer with a crisp clink. “The right of every good newspaperman, or woman, to report the news.”
    His voice was so calm she felt like screaming. “This isn’t news! It’s not true.”
    â€œIt is true, Jess. Sit down and have some coffee.”
    â€œHow do you know it’s true?” She was so furious she grabbed his cup off the saucer and gulped down the contents.
    â€œTelegraph,” he said calmly. He signaled Rita to bring another cup. “That’s how a journalist keeps up with the news,” he said. “I’m in touch with the Portland Oregonian office, and they just ran a story on our sheriff.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” she replied sharply.
    â€œNo, it’s not. It’s journalism.”
    â€œOh,” she breathed. “Oh, poor Jericho.”
    Cole laughed. “‘Poor Jericho’ nothing. It won’t make a damn bit of difference in the election. At the debate, if you recall, the sheriff made mincemeat of Conway Arbuckle. People are smarter than you think, Jess. It’s the man they’ll be voting for, not the law degree. A law degree isn’t a requirement for a district judge, and besides, Jericho can take the exam again in the spring. And besides that , Conway Arbuckle is turning out to be a reprehensible skunk.”
    â€œOh,” she said again. Cole began pressing the wrinkles out of his rumpled editorial page while Rita splashed coffee into both their cups.
    â€œHow are the repairs to your office comin’, Miss Jessamine?” the waitress inquired.
    â€œSlowly, Rita. I can hardly wait—” she caught the fleeting expression that crossed Cole’s face “—to, uh, see what it will look like when the carpenter is finished. Mr. Sanders has been very kind in letting me use his press.”
    â€œThe truth,” Cole interjected, “is that Miss Lassiter can hardly wait to get as far away from me as possible. He thumped the page he’d spread out by his plate.
    â€œCole, that’s not true,” she blurted out. “It’s just that...that...”
    The waitress grinned. “I know what you mean, Miss Jessamine. You two ain’t exactly like two peas in a pod. More like two Indians tryin’ to scalp each other.”
    â€œOh, no,” Jessamine protested. “We’re...well, we’re professional colleagues. Sort of.”
    â€œMaybe,” Cole muttered.
    â€œHuh! You two can’t even agree on an insult.” Rita picked up her coffeepot and headed back to the kitchen.
    â€œI—I’m having the upstairs painted a soft rose color,” Jess said to change the subject.
    â€œYeah, I know,” Cole said. “I was up there