His Precious Inheritance. Dorothy Clark

no need, Mama. You and I are here together, and I will take care of us both. No man will ever hurt either of us again. I promise you. Not ever.”

      * * *

      Charles tightened the screw in the wobbly table leg, tossed the screwdriver down and rose to shove the end of the table against the wall. “Ugh!” He ducked, rubbed the top of his head and shot a look upward. The three-lamp chandelier overhead was swinging. There were six of the traps for the tall and unwary hanging evenly spaced in two rows that ran the length of the room. One chandelier for each of the desks for the six reporters he hoped to need someday. So far he had one reporter—two counting himself—and a correspondence secretary acquired quite by accident. Well, accidental necessity. The deal he had made to edit and print the Assembly Herald newsletter was not quite as good as he had expected it to be, thanks to those letters. But he would still profit by it.

      He tugged the chain to lift the weights and lower the light closer to the work surface, then glanced across the width of the room to the new black walnut typewriter desk sitting at a right angle to the outside wall. Miss Gordon would be out of the way there at the back of the editorial room. And the desk was handy to the shelves on the back wall that held reference books and supplies, and also to this table he had brought in to give her a place to sort those letters. She was going to need it.

      He lifted the overstuffed burlap bag from where it leaned against the inside wall to the tabletop. Letters spilled out of the mouth of the bag onto the waxed wood when he let go. Curiosity reared. He picked up an envelope, broke the seal and scanned the contents.

      Dear Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle teacher,

      I have been doing my studying and reading and have come across these words I don’t understand or know how to properly say. There is no library near me where I can look them up in a dictionary. Would you help me, please? The words are phenomena and pantheists.

      Also, please, how do you say these names correctly? Leucippus and Democritus.

      Thank you for helping me.

      Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle member Martha Hewitt, Burgessville, Iowa

      He laid the letter on the table, lifted his hand and rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck. How would Miss Gordon ever manage to answer all of these letters in a column? It would take an entire page or more. He shook his head, strode to the door that opened into the composing room and continued on to the long, deep table that held the uncrated typewriters.

      Miss Gordon had tried to hide her excitement at his mention that she would use a typewriter, but her eyes had betrayed her. Their gray color had warmed and those blue flecks had glowed with anticipation. And then she had challenged him.

      He picked up one of the three typewriters and headed for her desk. How enthused and confident would Miss Gordon be when she saw the complex machine? Not to mention the thirteen-page brochure of directions on how to use and care for it. He would most likely have to help her in the beginning. Women weren’t meant to work with machines. It wasn’t their forte. They were best suited for caring for a home and a family. At least, most of them. His face went taut. He shoved away thoughts of his mother.

      He settled the typewriter on the pullout shelf, tested it a couple of times to make certain it remained stable. Odd that Miss Gordon was yet unmarried. She wasn’t unattractive. It was her plain manner of dress and that cool, standoffish attitude she manifested that made one think so. Still, when she smiled...

      He shook his head to rid himself of the image, strode back to the composing room, picked up another of the new typewriters and carried it to Boyd Willard’s desk in the front corner facing the stairwell. The reporter pounded up and down those stairs chasing after stories all day long and his comings and goings were less of a distraction with his desk in the front corner.

      Boyd wasn’t too keen on learning to use a typewriter, but he’d given him no choice. He wanted a modern, efficient newspaper and employees who would fit in with his plans. If Boyd continued to balk, he’d fire him and hire someone willing to learn modern ways.

      One more. He carried the last typewriter to his desk, looked around and smiled. The new machines gave the editorial room a modern, businesslike look. He distributed the manuals that had come with the machines to the other desks, plopped down in his desk chair and opened his. He might as well get a head start so he’d have the answers when Miss Gordon came to him looking for help.

      He scanned the information about setting the machines in place and skipped down the page. Machines are packed and shipped, properly adjusted and ready for use. Good to know. Placing the Paper. Ah, this was the information he needed.

      He grabbed a piece of paper off the pile sitting on his desk and read the instructions. Lay the paper upon the paper shelf (F) with the edge close down between the cylinder and the feed roll...

      * * *

      Clarice turned onto the stone walkway and glanced again at the impressive building. The morning sun shone on the brick, warmed the gray stone that framed the doors and windows and formed the legend Jamestown Journal above the second-story windows. She worked here! Her dream come true. Almost. The word calmed her rush of nerves. It was true Mr. Thornberg had hired her, but her work was for the Assembly Herald, not for the Journal. Still, she would be working here at the newspaper building every day. The chance for her to prove herself as a journalist would come.

      She took a deep breath, lifted the hem of her skirt and climbed the two steps to the large stoop. A long window in the wide paneled door reflected her image, the small white dots on the bodice of her midnight-blue day dress twinkling like stars in a night sky as she moved forward. She stole a quick glance to be sure every strand of hair was swept into the thick coil on the back of her head, then opened the door and stepped into a large entrance hall. There was a strange scent in the air—faintly metallic, rather...stale, though not like food. She sniffed, then sniffed again but couldn’t identify it. She turned toward the open door on her left marked Office and stepped inside. The odd scent grew stronger.

      A portly man with a bald spot and bushy gray eyebrows above eyes with squint lines at their corners turned from the counter he was leaning on and peered at her. She glanced at his ink-stained fingers and the black blotches smearing his leather apron. Printer’s ink. That’s what that smell was.

      “May I help you, miss?”

      “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for Mr. Thorn—”

      “Here’s the copy for that advertisement, Clicker.” Charles Thornberg came striding out of what she took to be an inner office, glanced her way and stopped short. He handed the paper in his hand to the portly man. “Mr. Gustafson wants twenty posters. He’ll send someone to pick them up this afternoon.”

      The printer nodded and hurried out the door beside her.

      Her nose twitched as he passed by. It was the ink.

      “You are prompt, Miss Gordon.”

      There was an underlying note in Charles Thornberg’s voice that suggested he was surprised by the fact. Because she was a woman? What other reason would he have? She gave him a cool look. “It is my belief that tardiness shows a flagrant disregard for another’s time. It has no place in the business world, Mr. Thornberg.”

      His left brow rose. “An admirable point of view, Miss Gordon.” He came around the desk, gestured toward the door. “If you will come with me, I will show you to your desk so you are not delayed in your work.”

      Was he gibing her for having an opinion? She swallowed the desire to ask him if he would have addressed a man thus, lifted her chin and preceded him out of the door then waited for his direction.

      “This way, please.”

      She followed him down the entrance room, through a door with a No Admittance sign and into a wide hallway. The odor of printer ink, much stronger in the smaller space, mingled with another somewhat rancid chemical smell.

      “That is the...er...‘necessary.’”