If the interview at the newspaper office went half as well as acquiring a room at Agnes Ledson’s boardinghouse, Mac would be in like Flynn. Agnes had turned out to be a middle-aged widow who treated Mac like a long-lost relative after learning Jared had sent her. The woman’s Native American heritage could be seen in her high cheekbones and still thick black hair that she wore in a bun at the back of her neck. She’d given Mac a bright airy room in the corner with nobody around her. It was perfect and the price was right.
In spite of Mac’s overabundance of clothing, a north wind kicked up her petticoats, making her shiver. She was half tempted to return to her room and don her blue jeans beneath the dress. If she hadn’t been so desperate to get the job, she would have done so without a second thought.
Agnes had given her directions on how to get to the newspaper office, which was one block over and two blocks up in the growing town. The brisk walk chilled Mac’s cheeks and nipped at her ears, which her ugly and completely useless hat did nothing to protect.
She paused in front of a glass window with bold dark letters painted on it: Hope Springs Times, Edward Banks, Editor. Mac shaded her eyes with one hand and leaned close to look into the office. Uncharacteristic doubts assailed her as she questioned her sanity in applying for a position here. The newspaper business in the nineteenth century was a world apart from the media of her own time. She had spent a summer working in Colonial Williamsburg playing the part of an early newsman, but that had been for show rather than practical application.
“You don’t have any other options,” she murmured to herself. “Necessity is the mother of invention. Or at least the mother of desperation.”
Mac needed this job.
She sucked in a lungful of brisk, fresh air . . . and promptly began to cough. Vaguely aware of the door opening, she was surprised to feel large hands steering her into the newspaper office. The odor of ink and paper tickled her nose, adding to her fit.
She finally overcame her coughing spasm and wiped her tearing eyes. When she could see, she looked up at shrewd brown eyes peering at her through wire spectacles perched on a bulbous nose. This man had to be the Hope Springs Times editor. It seemed there was a prototype for editors extending as far back as the 1800s.
“Miss McAllister?” The man’s voice was as gruff as he looked.
“Mr. Banks?”
“Good. The introductions are out of the way.” He moved back to the old-fashioned press and began to set type in the frame. “Spell presidential.”
Mac blinked. “P-r-e-s-i-d-e-n-t-i-a-l.”
“You’re hired. You can hang your coat over there.”
He motioned to a rack by the door where a single jacket hung.
Stunned, Mac remained rooted in place, then her suspicious nature took over. “Just like that? No interview? No background check?”
Banks didn’t look up from his task. “You want to be in the newspaper business, I need an employee. We both get what we want.” He spared her an impatient glance. “Don’t make Esme and Reg out to be liars.”
Reg? That had to be the Major. She squelched a grin. The name fit him like a Speedo. Don’t even go there.
“You going to stand there all day or get to work?” Banks demanded, his attention once more moving between his adept fingers and the piece of paper sitting in front of him.
His blunt voice spurred Mac into action and she quickly removed her cape and added it to the coat rack.
“Grab an apron and some sleeve guards or you’re going to ruin your dress,” Banks ordered.
Mac spotted the items and donned the apron. She studied the sleeve guards a moment, then tugged them on over her forearms.
“Now what?” she asked, covering her apprehension with pure bravado.
Banks inclined his head toward another tray with metal letters. “Pull those and start the setup for the next page.”
The press was similar to the one she’d used at Williamsburg where she’d learned how to typeset. She hadn’t been especially fast, but she understood the rudiments and could sling type without looking like a complete idiot.
She leaned over the table and began her task. As she lifted the previous type out, she placed them in their correct places in the smaller boxes surrounding her. All she had to do was remember the alphabet. Not too much of a feat, though she did find herself reciting the letters under her breath to remember if S came before R or after.
After the frame was emptied, she looked around. “Where are the articles for this page?”
Banks motioned toward his desk, which overflowed with sheets of paper. “There.”
Mac stifled a grimace. “Any idea which one of these hundred sheets is the right one?”
The editor glanced sharply at her, but a faint twinkle made it to his eyes before being squelched. “The latest one, Miss McAllister.”
“It’s Mac,” she fired back. She pawed through the mountain of papers and latched onto one with December twenty-sixth written across the top. “‘Sleigh Overturns on Main Street,’” Mac read aloud. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Earth-shattering stuff, huh?”
Banks glowered at her. “I am the editor, you are the typesetter and maybe, just maybe, sometimes a reporter. Understood?”
He sounded exactly like Mac’s first editor. She’d been fired from that position after three days. She couldn’t afford to lose this job, so she bit her lower lip and took the paper over to her station to begin the tedious chore of setting each individual letter of the article.
“It was a councilman’s,” Banks suddenly said.
“What?” Mac asked in confusion.
“The sleigh that overturned. It was Councilman Thurman’s. He tried to shut me down one time because I printed only what he told me, word for word.” Humor glinted in his dark eyes. “It didn’t matter that he’d been a few sheets to the wind.”
Mac caught on immediately. “Payback time?”
“You’re quick, Mis—Mac. I like that.” He threw her an approving, but fleeting smile. “Back to work. We have a paper to put out.”
Mac saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Banks grumbled something about uppity females, but his eyes twinkled above his spectacles.
They worked in companionable silence with only an occasional question from Mac. Though she hadn’t enjoyed her job as a historical typesetter, now she was grateful for the experience. She worked much slower than her boss, but she would have been clueless without the knowledge garnered from that summer employment.
The afternoon dragged on as Mac struggled to read Banks’s scrawl. She reined in her impulse to correct his style and change the purple prose to precise journalistic terms. She’d read enough about the history of newspapering to know that conciseness was often ignored for melodrama and sensationalism.
Mac was vaguely aware of Banks’s turning on the gaslights as dusk descended on Hope Springs. She glanced out the window and spotted snowflakes playing kamikaze against the glass. Sighing, she hoped it didn’t become too heavy. All she needed was a blizzard to slog through to return to her new temporary home.
Sometime later, Banks announced, “Time to call it a day.”
Mac straightened her spine slowly. After two cracks, three sharp twinges, and an assortment of “ows” and “ughs,” she managed to stand erect. She glanced at her employer and noticed how his backbone remained slightly curved, his shoulders hunched. “This doesn’t get any easier, does it?” she asked.
“This business is for fools,” he muttered.
“So why do you do it?”
“For probably the same reason you do, Mac. There’s ink in our blood.”
She couldn’t argue with him there, but she didn’t plan on being merely a typesetter forever either. “When do I get assigned my first story?”
Banks shrugged. “You bring me a story and I’ll read it. If it passes muster, I’ll print it.”
“Passes muster, huh? I’ll bet you and the Major served together in the military.”
“Nothing gets past you.” He settled himself in the chair behind the desk and leaned back, but kept his astute gaze aimed at Mac. “You haven’t done this much, have you?”
Mac froze. She needed this job and would beg, borrow or steal to keep it. “I’ll get faster.”
“You’d better.” The sparkle in his eyes belied his abrupt tone. “Reg said you’d only worked at the Chesterfield for five days before being fired.”
“He told you that?”
“I asked, he answered. We’ve been friends for more years than you’ve seen.”
Mac almost laughed aloud. If he only knew how many years she’d seen in the past week. “Did he tell you why I was dismissed?”
“Yes, but he also said you were a scrapper and he knew that’s what I needed. I don’t have time for simpering females or milksop men.” As if to make his point, he pulled open a drawer in his desk and drew out a brown bottle and a glass. “You aren’t one of those temperance females, are you?”
“Hardly.”
“Good.” He unscrewed the cap and splashed a generous amount of liquor in the tumbler. “You drink?”
Mac grinned. “Do you know a reporter who doesn’t?” She plopped into the only other chair in the office and it squeaked in rebellion.
Banks’s chuckle sounded rusty as he passed the drink to her. He touched the bottle’s neck to her glass. “To a long and rewarding partnership.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Mac tasted the whiskey and was relieved that it wasn’t rotgut. Or what she imagined was rotgut. She drank half of the contents, enjoying the warmth and tingle that lined her throat and belly. “I’m a damned good reporter, Mr. Banks. Why don’t you just give me an assignment so I can prove it?”
Banks held the bottle as he studied her. “I heard you already had an assignment.”
Mac stilled instantly. Had Jared told him? “Oh?”
“Don’t play coy, Mac. It doesn’t suit you and insults my intelligence. This town and the resort have peacefully coexisted ever since the Chesterfield was built, but with the murders, there have been some in town who think that if the resort wasn’t here, we wouldn’t have the killings.”
Mac pondered the new information. It was the same in every town, whether in this time or her own. Although the resort had given the townsfolk jobs, they didn’t hesitate to blame the ills of society on it.
“If you can get an exclusive from Yates about the murders—all of them—that would be front-page news,” Banks said.
The bribe was damned tempting, but she knew Jared. “He wouldn’t do it.”
“Maybe you could persuade him.”
She could persuade him to make love to her, but an interview was something else. Unless she combined the two. She could seduce Jared—the most enjoyable part of the assignment—and then afterward, when he was mellow and relaxed, she would ask. It might just work.
Except she didn’t want to use him. It didn’t seem fair.
And fair is being stuck back in the dark ages?
“I’ll think about it,” she finally said.
“Don’t think too long. The latest murder is still fresh enough to make everything involved with it timely.” Banks eyed her thoughtfully. “Where are you from?”
“A long ways away.”
Banks continued to study her and she forced herself not to squirm. “I don’t care about what you’ve done or where you’ve been,” he said. “I only care about the present and the job you do for me. You do a poor job, and I’ll fire you. You do a good job, and you’ll have a position here for as long as you want.”
Mac lifted the tumbler to her lips and cursed her hands for trembling. She swallowed the remaining whiskey in one gulp. Her eyes teared, but the burn was soothing. “I won’t let you down.”
“I hope not.” Banks waved his hand in a shooing motion. “You’re done for the day, Mac. Come back bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“How bright and early?” Mac asked suspiciously as she stood.
“Eight o’clock.”
Mac sighed in relief. “I’ll be here.”
“I know you will.” Then Banks turned his attention to the mountain of papers on his desk.
Mac removed the apron and sleeve guards then tugged on her cape. “Good night, Mr. Banks.”
He spared her a brusque smile. “ ’Night.”
She left the warmth of the office for the cool evening air. Fortunately, the snow had stopped falling. She shouldn’t have been surprised by how late it was, but then, she hadn’t planned on starting the job so quickly either.
Technological differences aside, she had felt comfortable in the newspaper office. The smell of ink and paper wasn’t so far removed from her own time and Mr. Banks seemed to be a decent boss. All in all, she could think of many worse positions she could be in, including cleaning toilets at the Chesterfield.
She owed the Major and Esme big time.
Her steps lightened as she walked down the boardwalk, past the general store, which was just closing, the Dolly Day saloon with tinny piano music and men’s voices spilling out, and a darkened lawyer’s office. Things were working out almost too well after the strangeness of finding herself in this time period. At the newspaper office she would have a pulse on the town and on those who lived in and around it. She should be able to discover what her secret mission was while doing a job she loved.
However, the cynical twenty-first century Mac was waiting for the other shoe to drop—nothing was this easy. There had to be some catch someplace.
The other condition to getting home.
Esme had sprung that one on Mac without warning. What if Mac’s memory of the night she’d time-traveled never returned? How was she to know what else had to be done?
She had nearly six months to recall the lost memory. Surely that would be enough time.
It damned well better be, because she didn’t intend to spend the rest of her life wearing Mother Hubbard dresses and stupid hats.
The following days passed swiftly for Mac as she grew more comfortable setting type and doing the other odd jobs around the newspaper office. However, there was little time for anything besides work, and the only people she spoke to were Mr. Banks and her landlady. She even missed ringing in the new year, 1893. She’d fallen asleep at ten that night, her back and shoulders aching after printing the weekly paper that day.
But Mac was proud of her first edition, even if it was only four pages long and nearly half of it was advertisements. She hadn’t written a story yet, but that would be the next step.
Mac entered the office on New Year’s Day to find Mr. Banks already there as he worked to finish folding the remaining papers.
“I was wondering when you were going to drag yourself in.”
“And here I thought I had the day off,” Mac shot back, pulling on the now-familiar apron and sleeve guards over the black skirt and white blouse she’d taken to wearing like a uniform.
“The only days a newspaper man has off are those days when there’s no news.”
Mac froze. “Has there been another murder?”
There shouldn’t have been, but the serial killer was never far from her thoughts. There seemed to be a loose pattern to the murders, but that didn’t mean he’d stick to it. Psychos were by definition psychotic, which meant reality had no place in their lives. Mac suspected the killer was making up his own rules as he went.
Banks tilted his head down and gazed at Mac over his glasses frames. “No. Were you expecting one?”
Mac lifted a pile of unfolded newspapers from the stack Banks was working on and found a spot on his desk for them. She sat down and started to fold them in half. “Not really.” She could feel her boss’s eyes drilling a hole in the back of her neck.
“What do you know about the killings?” he asked.
Though Mac liked and respected her boss, she had no illusions about him believing her wild hypothesis. She’d be without a job again. “I know the woman killed the other night was number five. I know she and the other four women didn’t deserve to die.” She finally looked at Banks. “And I know that the bastard who killed those women is out there laughing at us.”
He stared at her a moment, then nodded slowly. “This old reporter’s instincts are saying the same thing.” He continued to fold the papers silently. “Yates is in town. Ran into him this morning.”
Mac caught her breath. Why hadn’t he come to see her? “Oh?” she asked, careful to keep her tone neutral.
“He said he had to check out a few things. I asked him if he was willing to give me an exclusive story.”
“And what did he say?”
“Said that it would violate his principles.” Banks chuckled. “Hell, everyone knows newsmen have no principles.”
“The story is everything,” Mac said, her mind agreeing but her heart uncertain.
“Damn right it is. You and I know that. People like Yates don’t.”
“You mean, principled men like Yates?”
Banks stabbed her with a sharp gaze. “Which side are you on, Mac?”
“My own,” she replied. Though she had used some less-than-aboveboard techniques to get stories back in her time, she’d never violated a trust. She probably knew everything Jared did about the murders, but her conscience balked at writing the story. Jared had shared his information for one reason only: to increase their odds of catching the murderer. He’d also exacted a promise from her not to use his information in a news story.
Harsh silence filled the office as Mac waited for Banks’s explosion. But he only continued to ready the papers for distribution.
Two hours later, they finished.
“Get your coat on,” Banks said.
“You’re firing me for answering with the truth?”
Banks smirked. “I’m not firing you.” He handed her a pile of papers. “Get out there and sell these. It’s part of your job description.”
Though relieved, Mac hadn’t hired on to be a street vendor hawking newspapers. “I didn’t see that listed in the fine print,” she grumbled.
He removed his spectacles and rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I know you wanted the job to write stories, but I need you to set type. I’m willing to give you a shot as a reporter, but if you’re not willing to do what you have to . . . ”
She’d never been accused of slacking before. In fact, she was often criticized for pushing too hard, too fast. She’d had to in order to move ahead of her male colleagues.
Was she getting soft? When had Jared Yates become such a sensitive subject for her? She had slept with him twice, but that had no bearing on her job. He was a source; she was a reporter. She had an obligation to report the news—to hell with emotional entanglements.
“I’ll get your story from Yates,” she said, then smiled sweetly. “He’ll never know what hit him.”
She set the papers down and donned her cape, then headed to the door with the newspapers nestled in one arm. She paused suddenly. “How much do I sell these things for?”
Banks barked a laugh. “A nickel.”
She squared her shoulders and headed out.
An hour and a third supply of newspapers later, Mac spotted Jared. His long-legged stride and broad shoulders were easily recognizable from across the street.
She stepped off the boardwalk. “Hey there, Yates,” she called.
He paused, turned toward her, and his face lit with a smile. As they met in the middle of the street, Mac struggled to keep from launching herself into his arms.
Jared didn’t share her restraint and embraced her. “Hey there yourself, Mac,” he said, his breath whispering across her ear.
Surprised, she hugged him back, enjoying the brief intimacy.
He stepped back but kept a gentle hold on her arms and studied her. Her face warmed under his perusal and when she realized she was probably blushing like a teenager, she cocked her head. “Like what you see, mister?”
His lips turned upward in a sexy grin. “Careful, I might take that as an invitation.”
“And if it is?”
“Then I’d have to take it under consideration.” He eyed her as though she were dessert—a sinfully rich silk chocolate pie. He released her. “You’re looking good, Mac. The newspaper job must be agreeing with you.”
“For the most part.”
“Do you want to take a break, maybe have some coffee?”
Mac glanced at the two papers left in her hand. “Let me sell these first.”
Jared dug into his pocket and took her hand. He placed a dime on her palm. “Consider them sold. Let’s go someplace a little less public.”
“Don’t tell me you’re shy, Yates,” Mac teased. She leaned closer. “Because I know you’re not.” Passion flared in his light blue eyes and Mac laughed, recognizing the expression. “You and me both, but maybe we should start with coffee.”
“Good idea,” Jared murmured.
He guided her into a small café with red-checkered tablecloths. A candle was placed in the middle of each table, though at this time of the day, none were lit. Mac experienced an odd sense of déjà vu, then realized why. The restaurant looked more like one found in her time than here in the late nineteenth century.
“The police chief’s wife owns this place,” Jared said, taking Mac’s cape from her shoulders. “Nice apron.”
Mac glanced down. She’d forgotten she still wore the ugly thing, but she didn’t care. The maid’s uniform she’d worn at the Chesterfield had been worse. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“No.”
The single word held a husky undertone that curled her toes. “Good.”
Jared took care of her wrap and sat down across from her. “What would you like?”
“Are you paying?”
Jared grimaced. “I remember the last time I answered that. You had one of everything on the menu.”
“Not quite. But I would have if I had had room.” She leaned toward him. “Especially if I’d known how much energy we were going to use later.”
Mac wondered just how far his cherry-red blush descended. . . .