Maggie And The Maverick. Laurie Grant

too?”

      “Why, yes of course, Johnny,” Maggie told him with a smile. “That’s one vegetable we don’t have where I come from, and I find I quite like them.”

      The boy appeared intrigued. “You don’t have no black-eyed peas?” he asked, looking as if he thought she must come from the moon for that to be true.

      “Johnny, finish your dinner and let Miss Harper and your papa talk, please,” Devlin said. “Miss Harper, I intend for the motto on the Gazette’s masthead to be Forever The Truth For Texas. What do you think of that?”

      Didn’t he ever give up? “Indeed, I think that the truth is all any newspaper should print, sir. And I’m curiouswhat did you use for start-up capital, if you don’t mind my asking?”

      She watched as a guarded look swept over his face, and then a sardonic smile. “Do you mean how did I ever manage to find two bits to rub together after the Yankees moved in and the taxes went through the roof? It wasn’t easy, Miss Harper, in the face of that, but like all sneaky rebels, we had some silver buried in the backyard.”

      She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he was being sarcastic again. “All right, but if I may ask, what are you using for operating capital?”

      He blinked. “I beg your pardon, Miss Harper?”

      “Operating capital,” she repeated. “You know, the cost of running your newspaper? The money that buys your ink and paper and pays for any needed repairs to that printing press over there? I see you have enough supplies to start.” She nodded toward the Washington handpress, sitting behind the counter in all its shiny black glory, toward a cabinet full of rows of type cases, cylinders of paper and bottles of ink behind it. Devlin had paid a pretty penny for that press, she imagined, and wondered where the money had come from. None of the former rebels seemed to have any money left after the war, and his clothes, though neat and clean, were far from new or fancy.

      “Why, the sale of my paper will supply the operating capital,” he said, as if surprised. “I suppose it might occasionally be necessary to sell an ad to the general store, or print a Wanted poster for my brother the sheriff, or a handbill when Mayor Long is up for reelection, but I wish to keep my paper above the influence of those who would purchase space in it, Miss Harper. It’s far more important to devote the columns to exposing the evils presently existing in Texas—”

      “Lofty ideals, Mr. Devlin, but as an experienced newspaperwoman, I can tell you that your paper will starve for lack of cash nourishment if you think you can run it on nothing more than what the townspeople will pay for it. What did you plan on charging, sir? A nickel? This is a small town, and even if everyone subscribes, you won’t make enough to keep it going. No sir, in my opinion, you will have to plan on selling advertisement space regularly. Most papers run each ad for at least six weeks, which is very easy with stereotypes, the woodcut-and-type blocks patent medicine makers furnish. And you will have to do away with job printing during the day if you hope to survive—the paper can always be printed at night.”

      He looked momentarily dazed by all the information she had just thrown at him, but then he recovered, and Maggie could see he was restraining himself with some difficulty.

      “Opinions are one thing you don’t seem to lack, Miss Harper,” he said at last. “Very well, I shall sell advertisement space. I imagine the proprietor of the general store will be happy to buy an ad on a regular basis. And then there’s the milliner, and the barber—and of course Doc Broughton is always peddling some nostrum or other. Yes, Johnny, you may have a piece of pie now that you’ve eaten your peas. Here, I’ll cut you a slice.”

      Maggie decided she wouldn’t smash all his optimism in one sitting. She hadn’t met the businessmen of Gillespie Springs, of course, but from what she’d seen, a small-town merchant was notoriously reluctant to see the need to advertise when he had the only store of its kind for miles.

      She was about to ask another question when Devlin began to speak again.

      “Today is Tuesday,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “If we succeed in putting out our first edition tomorrow, we’ll plan on putting the paper out every Wednesday.”

      She nodded, pleased that they were now on a more businesslike footing. “In your letter, you mentioned that there was a room upstairs that would be my living quarters-does that staircase in the corner of the room lead to it?”

      “Yes, but I didn’t know you were a female then,” Devlin reminded her. “It’s out of the question for you to live upstairs now, of course. But you can rent a room at the boardinghouse over on North Street.”

      Now it was Maggie’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Why ever shouldn’t I live here? My board was part of the deal you offered, Mr. Devlin, and I doubt I can afford to pay board on the salary we agreed upon,” she informed him frankly. “As it is, I will have to buy my meals. And while you are not paying me the fifty cents an hour a male pressman could earn at any newspaper back East, I would like to be able to save some of my money. All Yankees are not born rich, despite what you may think.”

      “But you can’t stay up there, a woman alone!” he sputtered. “It wouldn’t be proper!”

      “Nonsense, sir. The door can be locked, can’t it? Having upstairs quarters will be very handy when we put the paper to bed late at night, as we will probably be doing tonight,” she said, then was amused to see him blush at the phrase.

      “Miss Harper, perhaps all Yankee women speak as you do, but I’ll remind you to keep a civil tongue around my son,” he snapped, though Johnny had finished his pie and was once more pursuing a fly on the window glass.

      She couldn’t help but laugh. “Mr. Devlin, that’s a perfectly usual term in the newspaper business,” she said, “not a lewd phrase at all. It means finishing that particular edition, and shutting down the press, and—”

      “I can guess that,” he interrupted. “Just watch how you talk, if you please. Ah, there you are, Sweeney,” he said, as the telegrapher rushed in. “Were you able to get an answer from your source in Austin?”

      “Yeah, I got lots a’ details for ya, Mr. Devlin,” said Sweeney, beaming with importance. “It’s sure ‘nough gonna set the folks in town on the boil, that’s fer dang sure!” Then he realized Maggie and the child were sitting there, and he clapped his bony hand over his mouth. “Oh, pardon me, miss.”

      Maggie could tell her employer longed to inform Sweeney that her language could be much coarser than his “dang,” but he restrained himself. “Think nothing of it,” she murmured, and then the bell over the door tinkled again, announcing Jovita’s return.

      “Eet ees time to come weeth me, niño,” the Mexican woman told Johnny as she entered, holding out her hand to the boy. “After your nap you can help me figure out what to make for supper for your papa, yes?”

      “That won’t be necessary, Jovita. I won’t be home for supper tonight In fact, I may be very late.”

      “But you must eat, señor, you and the señorita.”

      “You fuss like a mother hen, Jovita, but I promise I won’t forget to feed Miss Harper. I’ll fetch us sandwiches from the hotel or something. Now go on home with Johnny. I have a paper to get out”

      Maggie could see he was fairly fidgeting with impatience to get started. Well, for all his faults, at least Garrick Devlin was an eager newspaperman, and she could forgive a lot in the face of that. She remembered when the stories she’d been writing for her father’s newspaper had been allimportant to her, too. That had been before Richard, of course. Could she possibly regain her enthusiasm, working for a man who obviously hadn’t yet finished fighting the Civil War?

      “All right, señor,” Jovita said. “Well, if Papa must be late tonight, Johnny, what would you theenk of going to visit your tio Cal and tia Livy?”

      “Sí Jovita! See, Papa, she’s teachin’ me Mexican!”