Montana Christmas. Jackie Merritt

there was probably no reason to worry about it. Ms. Osterman wasn’t exactly elated over this interview.

      “Getting back to how my organization functions, I’m the only reporter on the payroll, Miss Dillon.”

      Startled, Andrea blinked. “You write every article yourself?”

      “I didn’t say that. I said I’m the only full-time, salaried reporter. I have three employees. You saw two of them on your way in. Grace Mulroy handles the classifieds, without which we wouldn’t stay in business for long. The woman who sent you to my office is a jack-of-all-trades, secretary, receptionist, delivery person, et cetera, et cetera. You name it, Sally does it. My third employee is the pressman. Now, besides those three very essential people, I hire a photographer when necessary and buy free-lance articles. Anyone can bring something in. If I think it’s good enough, it goes in the paper. I pay sixty-five cents a line. Can you live on sixty-five cents a line, Miss Dillon? Assuming your articles are published, of course.”

      “Money isn’t an issue,” Andrea said quietly, disliking this topic immensely. It really was no one else’s business that she had enough money to live very comfortably for the rest of her life. “But I need something to do. Naturally, your newspaper was the first thing I thought of when I came to that realization. What kind of articles are we talking about?”

      Kathleen shrugged. “Weddings, funerals, any sort of social function, accidents. Anything, actually. Let me warn you. If you’re thinking of free-lancing, you’ll have lots of competition. Especially with weddings and events of that nature.”

      “I understand.” Andrea began working her arms back into her coat. “Well, thank you for seeing me.”

      “You’re disappointed.”

      “I won’t lie about it, Ms. Osterman. I came here hoping for a full-time job.”

      Kathleen got up from her chair. “You want to know something, Miss Dillon? I have a feeling that the most intriguing story you could write for this paper would be about yourself.”

      Andrea rose. Kathleen definitely had a nose for news. It was blatantly obvious she wasn’t satisfied with Andrea’s explanation of why she was living in Rocky Ford.

      Andrea forced a laugh, as though Kathleen’s curiosity was funny and certainly of no consequence. Then she picked up her purse. “Again, thank you for your time.”

      “Will we meet again, Miss Dillon?” Kathleen’s agate eyes bored into Andrea.

      “You’re asking if I plan to free-lance. I don’t know, Ms. Osterman. I’m going to think about it. Goodbye.”

      Andrea felt Kathleen’s hard blue eyes on her back all the way to the front door of the building. Apparently, the publisher had left her office to watch her departure, probably with a rapidly working mind just teeming with all sorts of questions.

      Well, Kathleen had a right to her curiosity, just as she had a right to her disappointment. Heading for her car, she got in and drove away.

      Instead of going home, however, she made several turns until she came to Foxworth Street. Then, as she’d done a hundred times in the past seven months, she slowly cruised by Charlie’s Place. It always looked the same and it always affected her emotionally. Inside that sprawling structure was her father. Physically, it would be so simple to park and enter Charlie’s coffee shop. It was at that point that her imagination usually failed her.

      This morning was slightly different, though. Lucas pronouncing Charlie Fanon a nice guy yesterday was fresh fodder for thought. Nice guys didn’t turn their backs on their offspring, did they?

      But he had turned his back on her, before she was even born.

      That was the wall she kept hurling herself at and never quite managed to scale. If only her mother would have talked about Charlie. Sandra could have told her so much.

      Andrea’s heart hardened a little. Sandra hadn’t been fair with her, not fair at all.

      Disappointed with her talk with Kathleen and despondent about Charlie again, Andrea pointed her car toward home.

      

      That afternoon, Andrea knocked on Lucas’s door. When he opened it, she put a large covered pan in his hands. “I meant to give you this last night, Lucas. It’s turkey and pie. There’s no way I would be able to eat all the leftovers.”

      Lucas beamed. “Thank you. Would you like to come in?”

      Still unnerved over the morning’s depressing events, Andrea sighed. “No, but thank you. I’m going to run now.” She’d thrown on a sweater for the short hike from her house to Lucas’s, and was feeling the cold. She started to go, then remembered something. “Oh, by the way, thanks for shoveling my driveway again.”

      “You’re welcome, honey, but I didn’t do it. Shep did.”

      “Shep did?”

      “He was up early and did mine before first light. When I got up, he was pacing like a caged tiger. I told him if he wanted some more exercise to go next door and do yours.”

      “Well,” Andrea said, surprised and unable to conceal it. In a few seconds, she had gathered her wits enough to add, “Tell him thanks for me, okay? See you later, Lucas.” Shivering, she dashed home.

      In the kitchen, she stood over the furnace vent to warm up. It was a gray day and much too cold to be running around outside in only a sweater. She hadn’t caught a cold or a flu bug yet this winter, though both were certainly going around, and getting herself chilled was a foolish risk.

      But she’d wanted to take that food over to Lucas and simply hadn’t thought beyond that. More accurately, she’d been preoccupied, mostly thinking of her chat with Kathleen and wishing she could write something so brilliant, it would knock Ms. Osterman’s costly boots right off of her undoubtedly elegantly pedicured feet.

      The problem, of course, was a topic to write about. Since she knew so few people in Rocky Ford, weddings and other social events weren’t a consideration. Besides, she wasn’t even a tiny bit interested in writing that sort of piece, although if Kathleen had deigned to hire her as a full-time reporter, she would have written anything.

      Free-lancing was a whole other ball game. Of course, she could chuck the whole idea and seek some other kind of work. Deep down, though, she wanted to prove something to Kathleen Osterman. Prove herself, probably. Some people brought that urge out in others, and, in Andrea’s opinion, Kathleen was definitely in that category—hard as nails, exceedingly sure of herself and not particularly sympathetic toward would-be journalists.