Cowboy Creek Christmas. Cheryl St.John

had bought the gutted building and renovated it so quickly her head had spun. She imagined a fresh young fellow eager to make a big name for himself in the quickly growing cattle town.

      The exterior had been freshly painted, and the new door didn’t show any wear. On the other side of the enormous pane of glass, a bespectacled man was painting bold gold letters, scrupulously edged with black, spelling out Webster County Daily News. Beneath the name of the paper, the artist’s brush had scripted Owner & Managing Edito...and was midstroke on the r when he spotted her and quickly opened the door to usher her inside. A bell rang above the door as he opened and closed it. “It’s too cold to stand out there for longer than a minute,” he said. “Come inside and warm yourself by the stove.”

      There was a new stove surrounded by wooden chairs in the corner of the front open area, a space obviously designed to welcome visitors and perhaps encourage local gossip. A blue-speckled enamel pot sat atop the stove, and pegs holding half a dozen tin cups lined the wall.

      A four-foot-high wooden room divider with a half-door separated the back portion of the room, where desks had been haphazardly deposited and crates stood against one wall. Two enormous printing presses took up the space in the rear, and there were two doors leading to rooms beyond, one with the door open, the other closed.

      “Coffee’s hot. I just made it.” The painter gestured to the stove and pushed his glasses up his nose.

      “Are you the editor or a journalist?” she asked.

      “Forgive my manners. I’m Pete Sackett. Just here to do this lettering. I’m sure the owner heard the bell, so he’ll be out in a moment.”

      Marlys used the predicted moment to survey the impressive array of framed front pages along the interior wall of this area. The Progressive: LINCOLN ELECTED, New York Illustrated News: RICHMOND IS OURS!, Dallas Morning News: LEE SURRENDERS, The Daily Intelligencer: LINCOLN ASSASSINATED were a few headlines she had time to read before a greeting came from behind her.

      “Welcome to the Webster County Daily News.”

      At the instantly recognizable rich voice, her hands stilled on the scarf she’d been about to remove, and she turned.

      * * *

      At the sound of the bell, Sam Mason wiped ink from his fingers and stood, dropping the rag to the floor beside his journeyman. His knees cracked as he straightened, and the lanky young man grinned. They’d been cleaning type block since early that morning, arranging the blocks in orderly sequence in stained wood trays. “Your knees would protest, too, if you’d slept on the cold ground for months at a time while marching through Virginia. You were still on your mama’s knee by the fire, and a good thing for you.”

      “I’m not that young—you’re exaggerating,” the younger man disagreed. “I was running my family farm on sweat and prayer. Where do these uppercase script letters go?” Israel asked.

      “In that tray.” Sam pointed to the tray behind Israel. “Starting third row down and ending row seven in the middle.”

      Israel nodded and loaded the first letter block. Sam’s uncanny memory for details astounded most people, but Israel was used to it. He’d apprenticed under Sam in the city and had been honored that Sam had asked him to accompany him on this new venture.

      The appearance of the outer room gave Sam a jolt of pleasure every time he walked into it. The work area still smelled like new wood and plaster, but soon the combined smells of ink and paper would remind him of the history of years of journalistic endeavors and indicate a job well done.

      A woman in a practical gray coat and red scarf stood facing away from him, perusing his collection of front pages. Pete was still painting letters and had just outlined the S for Samuel’s name. “Welcome to the Webster County Daily News.”

      The woman pushed the scarf from her chestnut brown hair as she turned. The winter sun chose that moment to stream through the freshly cleaned and shined window, silhouetting her form and sparking glistening gold variations of color in her unfashionably short wavy hair, reaching only below her ears in casual disarray.

      She wore no jewelry and hadn’t rouged her cheeks, but her skin glowed, and her beauty needed no ornamentation. Her gaze riveted on his face, intense, probing, familiar. He experienced a jolt of awareness akin to the nervous anticipation of an impending skirmish. Why he dredged up that feeling puzzled him for only seconds. She narrowed her gold-brown eyes. They recognized each other at the same time.

      “Samuel?” she intoned.

      Her voice was a confirmation. He’d never forgotten the lilting sound of it. Marlys. “Miss Boyd. Or—is it still Miss Boyd?”

      “Yes.” His former fiancée’s astute gaze took in his shirt and trousers, the ink on his hands. “I had no idea it was you who had taken over the newspaper. I thought you’d long been settled in Philadelphia.”

      “The war changed a lot of plans.” He determinedly collected himself. “May I take your coat? You’ll get too warm.”

      She unbuttoned the garment and let it slide from her shoulders. She wore a pale blue blouse without ruffle or lace and a dark blue skirt. She was still as narrow and delicate-looking as the girl he remembered, but she’d blossomed into a lovely woman. He took the coat, sweetly perfumed with the scent of her hair, and hung it on a hook near the stove. His olfactory senses had not forgotten her, either. “Have a seat. There’s coffee.”

      “I’m fine, thank you.” But she moved to perch on a chair, and her formal manner drove his discomfort up another notch.

      The air crackled with more than the snap of the kindling in the stove. There were years between them, and he didn’t know her anymore. He had never truly known her.

      She glanced behind him and back to meet his eyes. “Are you the editor?”

      Perfunctory as always. “I am.”

      “A piece on my new practice would help spread the word and let people know I’m ready for business.”

      No small talk or girlish chatter. Her blunt and businesslike manner didn’t surprise him, nor did it offend him. Perhaps he knew her better than he thought. Sam tilted his head and went to gather paper and pencil before settling on a chair across from her. “I guess you’re the lady doctor who built on Second Street?”

      “I am.”

      “We lost touch quite a while ago,” he said, the first one to mention their previous relationship. “And we maintained no mutual acquaintances, so you’ll have to fill me in on your background, and we’ll make the piece interesting.”

      “Will you interview me right now?”

      He spread his fingers in question. “Do you have a few minutes?”

      “Yes, yes, of course.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees.

      “I recall you’re fluent in several languages. That’s an interesting fact. Four, is it?”

      “Latin, French, German, Portuguese, passable Chinese, and I can communicate somewhat in Choctaw, Chickasee and Cherokee.”

      “More than I thought.” He added a note on the paper. “And your education?” He kept his voice studiedly neutral as he mentioned the reason she’d called off their engagement.

      “I attended the Philadelphia School of Eclectic Medicine.”

      His pencil paused. He glanced up. “Did you learn conventional medicine there?”

      “If by conventional you mean cutting, purging, administering harmful chemicals, and adding tar to drinking water, I did not.”

      He sensed he’d opened a can of worms. “By harmful chemicals, you mean...?”

      “Mercury, arsenic. Even in small doses they are harmful at their worst and placebos at best.”

      The pieces he’d read about reformers and botanical physicians