stifled a flare of resentment. “So is my meeting.”
“Find someone else. This is your job.” Rick picked up a folder and flipped it open. “While we’re talking about your job, I also want to comment on the lack of letters to the editor.”
“People here are generally low-key. If they like something, they don’t say anything. If you want a reaction, you have to stir up the nest.”
“Not something you’re prone to doing.” He tilted her a half smile that, in spite of their momentary antagonism, slipped past her defenses and kindled a faint warmth.
“I think I’ve done a good job.”
“But I don’t want good,” Rick said, holding her gaze. “What I want from you is your best.”
Becky frowned, uncomfortable with this new tack. Did he think she was doing a mediocre job? “And that’s what you’ll get,” she said softly. She gathered up her papers and left without another look back, a self-doubt niggling at her confidence.
As she walked down the hall, she reread the article. Had she been overly positive? Had she done a mediocre job?
She thought of the wry grins of the cowboys as they talked about their work. She recognized the griping. Her brothers talked the same way when they had a particularly unpleasant chore. Yet underneath the words, she knew there was a love of a challenge. A pride in their work.
“Hey, Becky, eyes on the road.” Cliff caught her by the shoulders and set her aside. He angled his chin toward Rick’s office. “Had your bi-hourly meeting with the boss?”
Becky resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Cliff didn’t need to see her own frustration. Rick was ruffling all kinds of feathers, but in public she needed to stand behind him. “We had to discuss an article he wants me to look over.” Among other things.
Cliff drew her aside and lowered his voice. “Becky, you got to help me. This Rick guy is driving us nuts. He wants us to redo the layout for the next issue. Unless we work 24/7, it’s not going to get to the printer on time. Can you make him see sense?”
Becky took a deep breath and drew on the devotions she had read this morning.
“…in humility consider others better than yourselves.”
She had seldom stumbled over that passage. Until now.
“You know what’s at stake here, Cliff. We’re in transition.” She’d had to face the reality herself. As well, for the sake of unity in the office, she had to at least publicly toe the same line as Rick, though she disagreed with him in private. “It’s sort of like sharks. We don’t move, we die. And if moving means putting in more hours until we know where this magazine is going, I guess you should return those videos you rented for the weekend.” She flashed him a smile, hoping to soften her comment.
Cliff glared at her. Scowled at the door of Rick’s office. For a moment Becky thought he was going to charge in and give Rick a blast of his infamous temper.
“It’s just for now, Cliff,” Becky said, laying her hand on his arm to restrain him. “In a few months it will all settle down.”
Cliff’s glare shot to her. She smiled back. Held his gaze.
“He wants me to use more stock photos instead of photo shoots for the next issue. How’s that supposed to make us stand out from the other magazines?”
Becky gave him a light shake. “It’s just for now. Once we get the magazine turning a better profit, you can unleash your creativity once again.” She hoped.
Thankfully, his shoulders slumped. He fingered his goatee and Becky knew the moment had passed.
“I’m doing this for you, Becky. Okay? Just so you know.”
“Thanks, Cliff.”
The door to Rick’s office opened and Cliff glanced back over his shoulder at Rick, looking guilty. He flashed Becky a quick grin and ambled back down the hallway.
“Problems?” Rick asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Not anymore.” Becky held up the papers. “Got to get back to work here.” She scurried down the hallway and ducked into her office. Retreated into her sanctuary to regroup and hoped she didn’t have to deal with anyone else’s complaints about what was happening at the magazine.
Ever since Rick started, she spent as much of her day calming irate people and putting out fires, trying to be optimistic about what he was doing.
Which she wasn’t.
And what kind of reaction were people going to have when Gavin Stoddard started spewing his opinionated coffee-shop talk all over the magazine each month?
Alanna may have been emotional. Gladys may have been anachronistic. But neither generated the kind of mail she was sure Gavin would.
Becky pressed her fingers against her eyelids, pushing back the stress lurching in her midsection. She had head space for only one disaster at a time. And for now, this article took priority.
As she spread the papers in front of her, she felt a twist of frustration. The whole time she was working on the article, she had tried to make sure it was a balanced depiction of what these men did for a living. Yet at the same time she wanted to show their obvious pleasure in their work. Had she been “overly sentimental” again as Rick had once accused her of?
Misgivings slithered through her mind as she read the article through once more. She should listen to the interview tapes again. She had the number of the tape written in her Day-Timer.
Day-Timer. She groaned as she realized where she’d last seen it.
Becky swallowed her pride, got up and walked back to Rick’s office. He was on the phone but gestured for her to come in. She pointed to the burgundy folder on the desk and he nodded, not missing a beat in the conversation.
She picked it up and left. But as she closed the door, she caught him looking at her.
And frowning.
Chapter Three
“How are you enjoying the West?” Colson Ethier’s voice sounded overly hearty as if he was trying to inject enthusiasm for his project into his guinea pig.
Rick cradled the phone in the crook of his shoulder as he made some quick notes on one of the papers spread out on the dining room table of his apartment. “The natives are restless and the weather is the pits.” Behind him the rain ticked against the glass of the kitchen window, as if testing it. Seeking entry. He had hoped to drive into the mountains this evening and do some photography, but the weather had sent him indoors.
“Have you met Sam and Cora Ellison yet?”
“Grandfather, the extent of my socializing has been to smile at the waitress at Coffee’s On.” And sitting around an empty apartment on weekends looking over spreadsheets and articles.
“How are you getting along with Becky?”
Rick rapped the table with his pen. “We’re not.”
A measured beat of silence then, “She’s a lovely girl.”
She was more than lovely. More than frustrating, too.
“I was hoping you two might get along,” Colson continued.
His grandfather sounded pained, and the suspicion that Rick had about Colson’s motives was immediately confirmed.
“Editors and publishers aren’t supposed to get along.” The timer on the microwave went off. “My supper is ready.”
“You better go eat then.” Colson Ethier paused, cleared his throat as if he wanted to say more. And quickly hung up.
Rick tossed the phone on the couch. “Goodbye to you, too, Grandpa.”
Rick