A block from the post office, I pull out my journal and retrieve Uncle’s ledger sheets from where I’d tucked them for safekeeping. I copy the numbers into the journal, then tear out a fresh page and draft a letter. When I’m finished, I flag down a young boy who has a bag of salt tucked under his arm. He jogs across the street to meet me, his nose pink from the cold.
“Will you take this to the post office”—I hand him my note—“and have it mailed to this address?” I pass him another scrap of paper bearing the address for the Yuma Inquirer, with attention to the editor, Ruth Dodson.
“Mail it with what money?” the boy asks. “Look, miss, I ain’t got time for games. Ma’ll have my ear if I ain’t home with this salt soon.”
I give him enough to cover the postage. “Come back when the job’s done, and I’ll give you a full dollar.”
He looks at the coin in his palm. I took it from a pitcher on Kate’s mantel, where, dusting with her the very day we first arrived at the clearing, I’d discovered that she stores a bit of spare change. I feel guilty about swiping the money, but have every intention of paying it back.
The boy snatches up the note and turns briskly on his heel, heading for the post office. I’d expected him to question why I couldn’t mail the letter myself, but I suppose the prize was too pretty.
A carriage rumbles by.
A bird warbles out of view.
The courthouse clock strikes the hour.
The boy is taking too long.
Just as I’m certain my identity has been discovered, the post office door opens and he steps back onto the street. Relief floods me. I can be recognized in time, but not yet. There is one more thing I need to do.
“It’s mailed?” I ask when the boy jogs over.
He nods. “Gimme the dollar.”
“Only if you promise to not speak of this to anyone.”
He shrugs, unconcerned. “Whatever you say, miss.”
I pass him the coin he’s earned, and he tucks it into his pocket, then walks off without a goodbye. I glance up and down the street. No one seems to have noticed our transaction.
A stagecoach pulls up alongside the post office. A canvas bag full of letters and parcels is loaded. Even if someone were to search the letters, it’s the boy’s handwriting on that fateful envelope, not mine, but still I linger, waiting for the coach to drive off. I watch as its wheels leave narrow lines in the dirt streets, and then I wait an extra minute once it turns from view. Five minutes. Maybe ten. Enough that it has exited the city proper.
Satisfied, I ride to the offices of the Morning Courier, barely a block from the courthouse. The streets are busier now, and more than one set of eyes drifts in my direction as I stop before the two-story brick building. A proud whitewashed sign boasting the word COURIER looks down on me from above an arched window. I secure the sorrel and head inside. Even before the door swings shut behind me, a man in dusty work clothes has rushed over to inspect Uncle’s horse. He glances my way, and I give him a sheepish grin. The snakelike smile he shoots back betrays him, as does the speed at which he rushes off.
He does not realize he is playing right into my hand.
I hurry up to the second floor, where Mr. Marion has set up his office and printing press. A daily paper is a rarity in this part of the country, and already typesetters are hard at work, lining their composing sticks with tomorrow’s stories, letter by letter. The cases the men labor at are tall, like podiums, but several times wider—a sight both intimidating and inspiring at once. To think that every page of printed word is possible because of the individual letters housed in each case’s drawers.
One of the men catches me watching and jerks his head toward a slightly ajar office door. Of course I must be here to see the editor. Why else would a woman visit a press?
I nod my thanks and knock on the door. A voice calls for me to enter.
Nudging the door open, I find John Marion bent over his desk, scribbling frantically. When he looks up to greet me, I am not prepared for his plainness. The editor writes with such force and fanfare I presumed him to be a striking man or, at the very least, a man who exuded authority, but he has a patchy beard and an unassuming narrow face. His dark hair is swept back, so when he looks up to greet me, I can clearly see the puzzlement in his eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Marion. I know you’re a busy man, and based on the staff you keep, I can see that what I’m about to ask you is not customary, but—”
“Spit it out already,” he says. While his tone is gruff, his expression is not. This is just his demeanor, I realize. Much like the words he prints, Mr. Marion is not one to dance around his point or waste time on pleasantries.
I smooth my disheveled dress. “I come asking for a job.”
His forehead furrows.
“I want to write for the paper, but I understand that I might need to start as a typesetter and work my way up.”
He sets his pen down and looks at me pointedly. “And you assume I will turn you down because there are no women on my staff?”
“I saw the composers on the way in, sir.”
“I have hired female typesetters before. My wife was one.”
“Well, I have no intention of marrying you.”
He lets out a belly laugh, and his plainness pales with it. Father was by far a more handsome man, but Mr. Marion reminds me of him in this moment, bright-eyed and smiling.
“Nor am I searching for a bride. My wife is retired, not deceased. But I like your wit. A paper needs a sharp sensibility to succeed. Not even having read your work, I can see that you’ll do well. Here, or with another press.”
I try not to show my confusion. Mr. Marion is different from what I anticipated. I expected to be dismissed immediately, not entertained. I believed him to think women incapable of such a role, but perhaps it is only Uncle Gerald who has told me this. Perhaps I am unfairly combining his beliefs with those of Mr. Marion.
“That said,” the editor continues, “I do not even know with whom I’m speaking.”
“Charlotte Vaughn, sir.”
He frowns. “A relation to Gerald Vaughn, I presume?”
I nod. “I’m his niece.”
Now Mr. Marion looks deeply conflicted. I do not match the image Uncle has surely painted of me.
“Does your uncle know you’re in town? I believe he’s been looking for you.”
There’s a commotion in the hallway, followed by a bang as Uncle Gerald barrels into the office and the door rattles against the wall.
I knew he’d be arriving, yet when I turn to face him, I’m still not prepared for the way his presence makes my breath pinch off. He is dressed well despite the fact that he should be spending today at the mines with the workers. If he were anything like Father, he would be in slacks and suspenders, a work shirt and cap.
“Charlotte, thank goodness,” Uncle croons, gathering me into a hug as though he truly cares for my well-being. “My apologies about the interruption, John,” he says to Mr. Marion. “It won’t happen again.” He gives the editor a parting nod and ushers me out of the room, acting as though I am too weak to stand on my own feet. By the time we enter the stairwell, the act vanishes, along with his caring tone.
“I was relieved to see my horse is well. As for you . . .” His gaze dips to my feet. “You’ve found shoes. How unfortunate.”