His Precious Inheritance. Dorothy Clark

you may have or give you any help you require. You may feel free to interrupt my work at any time—while you are learning about the typewriter. I trust it will not take more than a few days.”

      His tone said he expected there would be quite a few interruptions. She stiffened and lowered her gaze back to the typewriter. If a man could learn to use it, so could she!

      “I placed the direction manual on the machine’s use and care in the top right-hand drawer of your desk, along with paper for its use.”

      There were directions! She gave an inward sigh of relief.

      “Any other writing supplies you might need are on the shelves. I felt it best if you arrange your desk as you wish.”

      “That is very considerate of you, Mr. Thornberg.” And not at all autocratic. She shoved aside her surprise. He must have a reason. No doubt all of those letters! “Thank you...for everything.”

      “Not at all, Miss Gordon. I trust you will find all of the research material you need on the shelves. However, if you come upon a CLSC member’s question you cannot find the answer to, you are to come to me. If necessary, I will purchase the needed resource material.”

      If necessary. The stiffness shot back into her spine. He might as well say straight out that he was certain he would be able to supply the answer to any question she found it necessary to bring to him. Well, she would wear her legs down to stubs walking to the public library to find any answer she might need before she would walk the few feet to Mr. high-and-mighty-superior-male Thornberg’s desk!

      “I shall leave you to your work now, Miss Gordon. I will be at my desk or in the composing room whe—should you need me.”

      She watched him walk away, then sat in the chair and slid the typewriter shelf toward her. The metal was cold to her touch, but, oh, how the feel of those round white keys warmed her. She pulled out the direction manual, cast a surreptitious look at the surprisingly thoughtful Mr. Thornberg and began to read.

      * * *

      Charles glanced toward Miss Gordon’s desk, frowned and directed his gaze back down to the article he was editing. He scanned the words, looking for the spot where he’d been reading... those who use science...spiritual existence...one truth can never contradict another... Ah. There it was. ...accustom people to... Now, what was she doing?

      He scowled and put down his pen. The carriage on Miss Gordon’s typewriter was lifted and she leaned forward peering down into the works, the manual in her hand. Why didn’t she come to him with her questions? She had to have questions.

      Her head lifted and their gazes met. His gut tightened. She gave him a tentative smile and went back to whatever she was doing with the typewriter, but the look in her eyes had said more clearly than words that she was uncomfortable with his attention. It was the same look she’d given him when she’d caught him looking at her aboard the Griffith. The woman made him feel like some lecher, and that would end right now! He sucked in air, shoved his chair back and rose. “Miss Gordon...” Her head lifted again and her unusual, expressive gray eyes fastened on him, uneasiness shadowing their depths.

      “Yes, Mr. Thornberg?”

      His remonstrance died unspoken. It was the woman’s first day and he was her boss. No doubt his presence made her uncomfortable. He should have thought of that. “I will be in the composing room, should you need my assistance.” He stepped toward the connecting door, paused at the pound of shoes against the stair treads.

      Boyd Willard burst into the room headed for his desk, glanced his way and changed directions. “Hey, boss. I—” The reporter’s gaze shot to the back of the room and a roguish grin tilted his lips. “Who is this?”

      Charles stepped forward, annoyed by the predatory look in Boyd’s eyes. He’d heard the reporter’s claims of his many conquests. “Miss Gordon is the Journal’s correspondence secretary.” He led the way to her desk. “Miss Gordon, this is Mr. Willard, the Journal’s reporter.”

      Boyd Willard whipped off his hat, stepped close to her desk and smiled. “Correspondence secretary? I wouldn’t mind getting a letter from you, Miss Gordon.”

      “That’s enough, Willard.”

      The reporter stiffened, jerked his gaze to him.

      “This is a workplace, and Miss Gordon is an employee. You will treat her with respect.” From the corner of his eye he saw Miss Gordon turn her head and look up at him. Those gray eyes held what...incredulity? Irritation surged. He gestured Boyd Willard to his desk with a flick of his hand, then strode back to his own. So much for leaving the room to make Miss Gordon more comfortable. He would stay at his desk until Willard left to rove about town in the search for stories...or whatever he did with his time.

      He pulled the article he’d been editing toward him then glanced toward the back of the room. His gaze crashed against Miss Gordon’s and she quickly looked back down at the pages in her hand, but not before he’d seen the relief in her eyes and felt the power of her tenuous smile.

      * * *

      “It’s the most marvelous thing you’ve ever seen, Mama!” Clarice lifted her supper tray from her lap and rose from her chair. “It really does print out words on paper. You push down the key with the letter you want printed on it, and this skinny metal rod they call a ‘type bar’ comes up and strikes the underneath of the cylinder, and there’s the letter on the paper!”

      She put her tray on the table by the bed, glanced at her mother’s tray and frowned. “You need to eat more, Mama. You’re too thin. Would you like me to spread preserves on your biscuit for you?”

      “I’ve had enough, Clarice. I don’t get very hungry being in bed all day long.”

      “Half a biscuit, then. Mama, you told me last night that you need something to do with your days...” She slathered preserves on the top half of the biscuit.

      “You’re not going to scold me again for mending Mrs. Duncan’s chemise, are you?”

      “I wasn’t scolding, Mama. I just don’t want you to—” She glanced at her mother, spotted her smile, grinned and handed her the biscuit top. “Stop teasing. Or I’ll make you eat the other half of this biscuit.”

      “That’s better. You fret about me too much, Clarice. I know it’s hard for you to see me this way, but—”

      “I wasn’t fretting, Mama. I was about to ask if you would help me with some work.”

      “Help you?” Her mother cast a suspicious glance up at her. “How?”

      “By writing down some of your recipes for me.” She slipped her mother’s tray away so she had no place to put the biscuit. “And perhaps some of the ways you’ve found to save time or do a better job of cleaning or gardening.”

      “Oh, Clarice...” Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes. “I am a burden to you. You’ve spent all day thinking about how to help me stay busy.”

      “I did not. And don’t ever say that again, Mama!” She piled the supper trays and started for the door.

      “Then tell me how my recipes and household tips can possibly help you.”

      “I’m going to make them into fillers.”

       “Fillers?”

      “Yes.” She balanced the trays and opened the door. “They’re short items of general interest that Mr. Thornberg uses to take up blank space when he composes the pages for the newspaper. He’s running out of them, and I intend to keep him supplied. I’ll explain after I take these supper trays downstairs.” She stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed.

      “Clarice, come back! You forgot this biscuit!”

      No, Mama. You did. She grinned and hurried down the hall to the stairs.

      *