Just Her Type by Jo Ann Ferguson Page A

great length in the Bugle about a man too cowardly to sign his name. She could do the same. She should … She looked out the window to see Douglas tossing a baseball and cheering. She would never risk her son.
    She folded her hands and leaned her forehead on them. How could she protect him? Or was this just a cruel joke? She sighed.
    â€œYou sound as if you’re expecting the end of the world.”
    Glancing up, she gasped, “Luke, I thought you were playing ball with the boys.”
    He wiped sweat from his forehead as he bent to scoop a dipper of water from the pail. His shirt clung damply to him, announcing each motion of his muscular torso. “Something told me you needed me more than they did.”
    â€œSomething?”
    â€œRemember your first lesson in working on a newspaper? A good reporter uses all his senses. I used my eyes.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “I came in to tell you that Douglas hit a home run, and I find you looking as if you’d had another visit from O’Grady.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    His dark eyebrows rose. “Is that so? I’ve seen happier faces at a funeral.” When she winced, he put the ladle on her desk. “What’s wrong, Mackenzie?”
    It took all her strength to force her stiff shoulders to shrug. “Douglas hit a home run?” She stood and picked up a handful of papers. Stacking them on another pile, she smiled. “That’s great.”
    â€œWhat’s not great is your lying to me. Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
    â€œYou calling me that to begin with!” she snapped.
    He chuckled. “Sorry. I forget you’re O’Grady’s girl.”
    â€œWhatever gave you that idea?”
    â€œTalk.”
    â€œWhose?”
    His fingertip drew a random path along her arm beneath her short, puffed sleeve. “Lots of folks. Folks who are downright anxious that you might give the newspaper to O’Grady.”
    Her chin rose in defiance. “Tell them not to worry. I’m not Aaron’s girl.”
    â€œNow or in the future?”
    â€œWhy this sudden interest in my romantic life? Jealous?”
    He stood and grinned at her. “I’d rather bed down with a grizzly than with you, sweetheart. At least, then I’d know where to look for claw marks.”
    She opened the door to the stairs. As she put her foot on the first riser, she said, “I’m sure we can arrange a way to satisfy your perverted tastes.” His laughter followed her up the stairs, easing, for a few more seconds, the fear.
    The relief did not last through supper. As Mackenzie watched her son joking with Luke, the crude note played through her head. She should—if she had an iota of sense—close the Bugle . The most stubborn part of her refused.
    Mackenzie lost herself in habit. Making sure Douglas had his schoolwork finished, sending him to bed with a kiss, washing the dishes.
    When she finished drying the dishes, she hung the towel by the stove. She drew two cups off the shelf and, taking up the coffeepot, filled them. She set them on the table where Luke had been working since she had cleared the supper dishes. “Didn’t you just send the Independent an article?”
    â€œI promised Carter one every other day.” He grinned. “Why don’t you sit and help this coffee keep me awake?”
    â€œSuch pretty talk is sure to turn my head.”
    He chuckled. “I doubt that.” As she sat across from him, he asked, “Are you ready to tell me what upset you so much this afternoon?”
    Although Mackenzie longed to be honest, Luke understood too little about the folks here. To keep him from asking more questions she had no intention of answering, she tapped the page in front of him. “What are you writing about?”
    â€œNothing.” Lowering his cup to the table, he sighed. “I’m waiting for an idea.”
    â€œWith all the things you find