Just Her Type by Jo Ann Ferguson Page B

fascinating here, you can’t think of anything to write?”
    â€œThe Independent is different from the Bugle . Our readers don’t know each other. They care about meaty issues.”
    â€œThat’s a shame … for you. There’s a family feeling here I wouldn’t trade for your big-city anonymity.”
    â€œAnd like all families, the patriarchs of Bentonville wrestle for control?”
    â€œI wouldn’t call the Terrible Trio a family.” Resting her arms on the table, she glanced past him to Cameron’s picture and away. “You need to understand a few things. The cattle barons have set themselves up as feudal lords. They prey on each other, but, unlike the lords of old, they offer no protection to those who do their dirty deeds. Instead they watch while their henchmen are sent to hang. When the hanging is done, they count their profits, for gold and power are the only two gods they idolize.” She laughed as she saw he was writing. “Are you listening to me?”
    He looked up. “Sorry. Inspiration struck in the middle of your diatribe.”
    â€œInspiration?”
    â€œJust something you said.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    He blocked her view of his handwriting. “Don’t you think I find everything you say engrossing?”
    â€œNo, for you were rather perturbed when we were talking about women’s suffrage.” When he grimaced, she laughed.
    â€œI won’t argue about that anymore.” He scooped up the pages and tossed them on the sofa. “It’s stuffy in here, Mackenzie. What do you say to a walk?”
    Rising, she reached for her bonnet. This was just the excuse she needed to be certain no one was lurking out there tonight. “Going for a walk sounds wonderful, but, Luke, just out to the barn and back.”
    â€œAre you scared of some beast?” he teased as she tied on her poke bonnet. Taking her crocheted shawl, he draped it over her shoulders.
    Again she wanted to be honest about the note, but said, “I don’t want to have Douglas wake and find us gone.”
    He took her hand as they walked down the stairs. Although her toes knew each board, she needed his touch to remind her she was not alone. When they stepped into the refreshing night, she put her hand on his arm.
    In silence, they turned their backs on the hubbub of the saloon down the street. Tufts of grass caught at her skirt, but she ignored it with the ease of years of living at the edge of the range. Moonlight etched the landscape, creating shadows against the gray. The rough edges of the mountains were smoothed by the dim light.
    A lonesome sound climbed into the night, and Luke cursed. “What was that?”
    â€œTimber wolves by the sound. The cowboys shoot as many as they can, but the sheepmen suffer more losses on top of what they lose to—to the other dangers of the range.”
    Luke stopped. “What other dangers?”
    â€œWeather, lack of grass and water, things like that.”
    â€œThose are conditions, not dangers. There must be something to the stories I’ve been hearing at Stub’s saloon about rivalry between the cattlemen and the sheepmen.”
    When she stepped away, he brought her back against him. “Luke …”
    â€œJust let me look at you,” he whispered. “That’s been my only pleasure since I started slaving for you.”
    â€œI work as hard as you do.”
    â€œNo one could deny that, but we aren’t working now, Madam Editor. You’re a lovely woman alone on the far side of a barn with a man who enjoys looking at the sapphire skies reflected in your eyes each morning.”
    The image of seeing him closer each dawn erupted into her head. His head on her pillow, her hair covering his bare shoulders, and his mouth only a wish away from hers. No! I must not be thinking like this .
    â€œLuke, we ought to be returning …” His fingertip stroked her lips. As