Mail Order Bride: Winter (Bride For All Seasons 4)

ears, and whether Abigail, at nearly forty, might still accomplish that feat did a second mate desire it? Simple. She could not. And so her mild protest fumbled to a stop.

Meanwhile Abigail was looking about, only to realize they had reached home base. Suddenly she stepped forward, surprising her companion with a warm, enveloping, heartfelt hug. “Here, I’m but a few steps away now. Good night, Hannah. I had a lovely time today, and a lovely talk with you, and I look forward to reading your article when it’s ready for approval.”

Chapter Four

UPON HIS UNEXPECTED appearance at the Gazette a few days later, Hannah was so taken aback that she dropped her pencil, which rolled halfway across the floor to halt almost under his feet, and knocked over her coffee cup, which was, fortunately for the layout she had been putting together, nearly empty.

With a few muffled words that might have been ladylike curses (it’s amazing what adverse habits one acquires in the masculine atmosphere of a newspaper office), she grabbed a convenient rag and began mopping up.

Meanwhile, Gabe bent to retrieve her pencil. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” she said, getting up and closing the door to keep the stove’s heat inside.

“Sure. Mr. Crane often accuses me of woolgathering. I suppose I was doing so, again.”

“Well, then, I hope the wool was soft and fluffy.” Discarding that, he approached to peer down at her work. “Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m being taught the finer arts of creating an advertisement. After that, I suppose it will be typesetting. And then, perhaps, in my spare time I can walk the streets and deliver the newspapers that I’ve printed.”

“I love a woman with a passion.”

She looked up from her table full of scissors, squares of paper, and paste pots to smile.

He glanced around the spacious room, crowded with everything under the sun necessary for operating a mighty publishing business. Stacks of blank newsprint in the corner, ready for use. A sturdy oak cabinet holding metal trays full of type, in a variety of fonts. The Gazette’s inadequate pot belly stove, currently stuffed with smoldering wood chips. And, of course, the printing press itself, a cumbersome and, when it was working at full operation, noisy block of machinery.

The silence was stretching out, becoming uncomfortable. To fill the vacuum, to dispel that sense of discomfort, Hannah remarked that Abigail Fitzsimmons had, subject to a small change or deletion here and there, approved her article for publication.

“Announcing location of the store, y’ mean?”

“Well, that...and some of her background—how she happened to come here, and so on—for human interest. Readers like the personal touch.”

Foregoing an aimless inspection of the printer and equipment, he had wandered back to the desk. Killing time? At least they weren’t fighting as they previously had. They usually disagreed about everything from religion to politics.

“Sounds good. I’ll look forward to readin’ it. Abby’s led an—well, an interestin’ life, so I’ve heard, with some hardship in between. Smart lady. Pretty, too, with that sorta goldy hair and those dimples. Nice she’s chosen our town to make a fresh start.”

“Uh-huh. Nice,” echoed Hannah.

“And, I must admit, that is some unusual setup she’s got over there at Table. Put a lot of thought into her design, and a lot of heart and soul. She’d oughta let some of the ladies’ groups meet there once in a while. Seems t’ me they’d get a kick out of it.”

“Oh, indeed.” Could she do nothing but parrot his words? To what realm had her fiery, independent spirit disappeared?

“So. Where is everybody?”

“I’m here,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t I count?”

Gabe’s grin stretched from mouth to sparkling eyes. “Okay, point taken. You’re runnin’ the shop, huh? But how about Corny, for example? What happened to that ole reprobate?”

“Mr. Throckmorton. Ah.” Hannah paused to deliberate, as if the part-timer’s routine were not the same every day. “If it’s dinner time, he will be swilling down his meal at the Red Slipper Bar. Perhaps you are familiar with the place?”

He snorted. “Not me. I’m an innocent; don’t even know where it is. Does the man show up to work a’tall?”

“If finding the floor swept and the wood box refilled each morning means he’s showed up the night before, then—yes, he most assuredly has. Why?” she asked politely. “Were you looking for him?”

“Well, no, not him in particular. Just wonderin’ why you’re all alone here, and for how long?”

“Well, it’s dinner time.” Hannah was scrubbing at the coffee stain on her skirt. Of course this would have to have happened, on a day she had decided not to don the unattractive leather apron. One of her better dresses, too, of sedate burgundy wool. “No one, not even a breaking story comes between Mr. Crane and his dinner, scheduled precisely at noon in a back corner of the Sarsaparilla.” Then, remembering business, she asked, “Did you wish to consult on some matter?”

“Nope.” Gabe was standing, entirely at his ease, both hands in pockets, rocking slowly and slightly back and forth on his heels. “Came to see you.”