Wildwood. Lynna Banning

removed her white work apron—once starched stiff enough to stand up by itself he could tell, but now crumpled and dirt streaked—and hurriedly rolled down one blouse sleeve. She had the other sleeve down and buttoned at her narrow wrist before the door clicked shut behind them.

      Ben’s gut tightened. He hadn’t exactly planned to escort Jessamyn Whittaker to call on Widow Boult, but the longer he looked at the delicately feminine creature at his side, the better he liked the idea. Besides, keeping a close watch on the Wildwood Times editor was only prudent. If she was anything like Thad Whittaker, the minute he took his eyes off her, she’d be rooting around where she had no business to be.

      Except for her figure and that ruffly parasol she’d snapped open against the hot afternoon sunshine, she was the spitting image of Thad—same dark hair, same mossy green eyes. Same chattery, back-talking tongue.

      Troublous. Just as Jeremiah said.

      He glanced at Jessamyn’s face, shaded under the circle of black silk. Same…no, it wasn’t. True, her chin was slightly pointed, like Thad’s, but her mouth was rosy and full. God almighty, he groaned inwardly. Even if she was a Yankee, her lips looked soft enough to…

      Ben stepped hard off the end of the boardwalk, his spurs ringing. Odd thing about parasols, he thought. He hadn’t seen one for years. General Denton’s wife had one, back in Dakota Territory. The sight of it always made him homesick. Now the picture Jessamyn Whittaker made under the shadow of her frilly sun umbrella drove the breath out of his lungs. A lump the size of a musket ball formed in his throat.

      Damnation, but he was lonely.

      But not for any Lincoln-loving Yankee!

      

      “Miz Boult, Jessamyn Whittaker.” Ben stepped aside as Jessamyn extended her hand toward the buxom woman who filled the doorway.

      Mrs. Boult folded her two hands around the younger woman’s fingers. “Howdy.” She gripped Jessamyn’s hand tight, her callused palms warm and strong. Then she peered over Jessamyn’s shoulder at the sheriff, and the warm expression in the older woman’s snapping blue eyes turned wary.

      “You again!” she huffed.

      “Sorry, ma’am.”

      Jessamyn thought his voice held a hint of laughter, but his tanned face showed no emotion.

      “Get along with you, Ben,” Mrs. Boult ordered. “Miz Whittaker and I have some visitin’ to do.”

      Ben tipped his black Stetson, quirked one eyebrow at Jessamyn and strode off down the street, his spurs chinking with each footstep.

      “Pesky man,” Mrs. Boult huffed. “Can’t draw a breath in peace lately with him around. Nice-lookin’ man, just won’t stop askin’ questions. He’s been like a hibernatin’ grizzly bear ever since Thad Whittaker—Oh! Sorry, my dear. I plumb forgot that’s why you’re here. Come in, come in!” She drew Jessamyn over the threshold of the neat frame house.

      “This here’s the front parlor. Set a spell while I rustle up some coffee.”

      Jessamyn opened her mouth to offer help, but the elderly woman bustled out of the room. “Won’t be a minute,” she called from somewhere down the hallway.

      A green velvet sofa beckoned under the lace-curtained front window. Jessamyn settled herself on the cushions and let her gaze wander over the room. A pair of wing-back chairs upholstered in a swirly forest green velvet flanked the sofa. A hand-knit, teal blue shawl had been tossed over the back of one. A Brussels carpet covered all but the outer edges of the polished hardwood floor.

      Stretching her feet toward a low tapestry-covered ottoman in front of the sofa, Jessamyn breathed in the faint scent of lemon oil and baking bread. What a comfortable house, so quiet and blessedly cool after the pounding summer sun outside. She noticed the window shades had been drawn, evidently to keep out the midday heat.

      This wondrous haven of peace actually belonged to her? She could hardly believe it. In all her life she’d never lived in anything other than the house where her mother took in lodgers or—after Mama died—a rented room in Mrs. Dennan’s boardinghouse. And now…

      She squeezed her eyes tight shut, then popped her lids open. No, it wasn’t a dream. All this belonged to her? Not the furnishings, of course—those would be Mrs. Boult’s— but the walls, the roof, the silence! Just think! Here, in Papa’s house—her house—she would never again worry about paying for lodging. Jessamyn snuggled herself deeper into the sofa cushion. Boston it was certainly not, but they’d have to pry her loose with a crowbar to get her to leave now.

      “Here we are, my dear.” Mrs. Boult swept into the room and set an enamelware tray of coffee, fresh sliced bread and thick purple jam on the square oak side table. Jessamyn’s stomach rumbled. She’d skipped breakfast at the hotel, then worked right through lunch. “Oh, Mrs. Boult, that smells simply wonderful! May I?”

      She reached for a small plate, loaded it with two slices of the fragrant bread and added a generous dollop of jam. She settled the plate in her lap. Miss Bennett would not approve, she knew. But Miss Bennett had never scrubbed floors all morning.

      Mrs. Boult handed Jessamyn a steaming mug of coffee. “Call me Cora, my dear. Ever since my Frank died, I’ve not felt comfortable about the ‘Mrs.’ tacked onto my name. My full name’s Cordella, but just Cora will do fine.”

      Jessamyn took a swallow from the mug to wash down the first bite of bread and jam. “Then please, do call me Jessamyn.”

      Cora bobbed her silver-gray head in agreement. “Now, Miss Jessamyn, when were you wantin’ to move in?”

      Jessamyn choked on her coffee. “But where will you go?”

      Cora chuckled. “I got a sister over in Deer Creek been wantin’ me to keep house for her. Might do that. Then again, I might—”

      “Would you stay and keep house for me?” Jessamyn heard herself ask. “As you did for my father?”

      The older woman set her mug down on the table and folded her weathered hands in her lap. “Difference is, Miss Jessamyn, that I didn’t exactly keep house for your pa. More like I kept his house in order, but he really lived down at the news office. Don’t know how he managed, but he did. Truth is, Thad Whittaker paid off my mortgage, bless his heart, but he never took possession. Said he was content to buy the place so’s his daughter would have it someday.”

      Jessamyn’s heart gave an erratic thump.. “Did he say that? Really? He did it for…for me?”

      Cora nodded. “I figure you’ll want to move in soon as you can.”

      “Yes,” Jessamyn said quietly. “I do. I’ve never had a place of my own. But you see, Cora, I’m a working woman, a newspaper editor now.” She shot a quick look at the older woman’s face. “I won’t have time to cook and clean and put up jam and beat the rugs in the spring.”

      “True, I can cook,” Cora ventured.

      “Oh, I can see that—your bread is delicious!” Jessamyn held her breath.

      “Come summer,” the older woman continued, “I usually can tomatoes and beans from the garden out back and make my jams and jellies—that’s huckleberry you’re eatin’ right now. Then in the fall, when the apples and pears come on… Oh, I couldn’t, Miss Jessamyn. You won’t want a stranger in your house.”

      “Cora,” Jessamyn said firmly, “you’re not a stranger. You’re my first friend here in Wildwood Valley. I want you to stay. I want to make a success of Papa’s—I mean, of my newspaper.”

      Oh, heavens! The import of what she’d just said hit her square in the solar plexus. She was now the sole editor and publisher of the Wildwood Times. She alone was responsible for gathering, sifting, writing and disseminating all the Douglas County news to the Wildwood Valley readers. She would be the voice of their conscience, the voice