heâs a cheat. You shouldnât sling mud around with accusations like that unless you can back them up with facts.â
âWhat if I can back them up?â
âIâm betting that you canât.â
âHow would you know?â
âJessamine, you keep this up and Arbuckle will sue you for everything youâve got.â
Her face turned whiter than the tablecloth. She studied the teapot, her spoon, the squashed napkin that lay on the table between them. At last she looked up at him, and his heart flopped into his belly.
Tears welled in her eyes. Big shiny tears that made him want to lick them off her cheeks.
âWhen Miles...â She bit her trembling lip and Cole stifled a groan.
âMy brother was always the brainy one,â she said on a shaky breath. âWe came from a long line of newspaper publishers, our great-grandfather in England, and our grandfather and father in Boston. Papa taught Miles everything, and I...well, I just tagged along because I was a girl. When Papa died we came out West to start over on our own, and then...then Miles was killed and IâI am doing my best to carry on the family tradition. â
âAnd youâre doing fine, Jessamine. But you might, uh, ask Sheriff Jericho Silver what his law books say about defamation of character. And libel.â
The color drained from her face. âL-libel? Miles never talked about libel.â
âThatâs probably what got your brother killed. Jessamine, exactly how much do you know about editing a newspaper?â
She drew herself up so stiff he thought sheâd pop the buttons off her red gingham shirtwaist. âI know enough,â she said in a tight voice.
âNot hardly.â He tried to gentle his voice, but he was irritated. Damn fool woman. No doubt sheâd stepped up to fill her brotherâs shoes and take on the newspaper, and he had to admire her for that, but wanting and succeeding were two different things. Doing it badly could get her killed.
âThere are rules,â he said. âGood journalists donât go off half-cocked, and good journalists donât sling accusations around without hard facts to back them up.â
âOh.â She sounded contrite, but her eyes were blazing. âExactly why are you helping me, Cole? After all, we are competitors.â
âYouâre darn right, we are competitors. But look at it this way, Jess. We may be on opposite sides of the fence, but actually weâre helping each other. My subscriptions have nearly doubled. Iâd wager your subscriptions are up, too. But if your newspaper goes under, there goes reader interest in the competition between my Lark and your Sentinel .â
She gripped the handle of her teacup so tight he thought it might snap off. âIâve sunk every last penny I have in the Sentinel ,â she said in a shaky voice. âI cannot afford to fight a lawsuit.â
âThen donât. Get yourself a set of law books and start studying whatâs libelous and whatâs just legitimate criticism.â
She opened her mouth to reply, but Rita interrupted. âEggs and bacon, right?â She plopped down two loaded platters and stepped back. âYou two arenât gonna fight over breakfast, now, are you?â
âNot this morning,â Cole said with a smile.
âI guess not,â Jessamine said in a small voice. âNot when Iâm this hungry.â
Cole crunched up a strip of crispy bacon. âHunger makes us good bedfellows.â
She flushed scarlet and he suddenly realized how that might have sounded, but it was too late. Then with extreme care she upended her teacup and poured the hot liquid over his knuckles.
While he mopped at his hand and swore, she calmly picked up her fork. âBedfellows?â she said, her tone icy. âThat remark is positively indecently suggestive. I should sue you.â
Cole bit back a laugh. âYeah, well,
Marion Chesney, M.C. Beaton