slapped yesterdayâs Sentinel editorial on her desk.
Slowly Jess forced herself to stand erect. If he was going to shoot her, heâd have a gun, wouldnât he?
âNo, Mr. Arbuckle, I do not regret what I wrote. The public has every right toââ
âDonât you talk back to me, you little bitch!â
Before she could draw breath, Arbuckle pulled a shiny revolver out of his jacket pocket and aimed it straight at her heart.
âEli,â she said, keeping her gaze fixed on the weapon, âget down behind the press.â
Arbuckleâs gun wavered. âEither you print a retraction orââ
âOr you will shoot me?â She didnât like the crazed look in his watery eyes, but she worked to keep her voice steady.
âDamn straight. Start writing!â
âI am afraid I c-cannot do that.â
He waved the weapon in her face, then dropped the barrel to point once more at her chest. âYou can, and by God you will.â
Jess remembered the look on Milesâs face when he had been shot, as if he was surprised. Lord have mercy, she would look just like that. All at once she couldnât breathe, couldnât think. She wasnât surprised; she was terrified. She wanted to be a good journalist, but oh, God, she didnât want to die. She closed her eyes and tried to focus.
And then she heard Coleâs voice. âDrop it, Arbuckle.â
He stood framed in the doorway, a rifle aimed at Arbuckleâs spine. The man swung toward the door, but Cole stepped forward and knocked Arbuckleâs gun arm upward. The revolver arced out of his grasp and clattered onto the floor. Cole kicked it away, then smashed the rifle butt into the manâs jaw.
Jessamine yelped. Cole looked over to see her holding Eliâs brass spittoon aloft. âOh,â she said. And then âOh,â again.
He yanked Arbuckle to his feet and pulled his red face up close to his. âIf I ever see you in this office again, Iâll kill you. You got that?â
âS-sure, Sanders. Just a little misunderstanding between the lady andââ
Before he could finish, Cole booted him out onto the boardwalk.
âYou okay, Eli?â he called.
âYo,â came a quavery voice.
Cole scooped up Arbuckleâs gun and stepped behind the press. âEli, can you handle a revolver?â
âYep. Fought Indians one summer after the war, till I...well, I deserted. I keep a forty-four back of my font case, but I couldnât get to it in time.â
âKeep this one in your belt.â He laid the weapon in Eliâs unsteady hand. Then he moved to a frozen Jess and lifted the spittoon out of her hands. âWhat were you going to do with this anyway?â
âH-hit him over the head. I was afraid he was going to sh-shoot you.â
He just looked at her.
âThank you, Cole. Thank you.â
He nodded. âIt was a good editorial, Jess.â
âTh-thank you,â she said again.
âChoir rehearsal again tonight,â he reminded her. âAnd donât forget,â he said with a smile, âno corset.â
Eli haw-hawed from his stool behind the press, and Jessamine started to bite her lips.
Cole sighed. âAnd for Godâs sake,â he murmured, âdonât do that, Jess. Otherwise Iâm going to have another damn long night.â
Chapter Ten
C ole sat at his desk, staring down at nothing and tried to order his brain to behave. It got like this sometimes, especially when he was stirred up about something. He was more than a little surprised that it was Jessamine Lassiter that triggered his memory this time.
It had been a long, hot day, the kind of day Quantrill had favored for his raids. Only Quantrill came at night, when there was no moon and mothers and fathers had tucked their little ones in bed.
The man liked fire, liked setting them. Some said he liked watching them burn. And he liked the sound of
Marion Chesney, M.C. Beaton