The daughter of the local preacher had no riches to offer. Tariana squared her shoulders and shook off the despair. Perhaps she should concentrate her efforts on living a life alone, settling for the life of a spinster, before reluctantly surrendering to hide behind the monastery walls.
Outside of her window, the crucifix rose high in the air on the building’s upper plateau. At least the roar of the falls would keep her company on lonely nights without a man and family.
Did that sound like the reasoning of a faith-filled woman, wanting to serve God sacrificially for the rest of her life? No. She chuckled at her idiocy. She wasn’t even Roman Catholic. Her Baptist father would be appalled to know his daughter entertained such ridiculous thoughts simply to escape having to the search for a decent husband.
It was time to put away such childish reasoning. She dug in her heels and decided to go to town later to see if any shops were willing to take on an apprentice. There’d be no harm in learning a skill, regardless of what her future held.
She avoided the diner in town, not wanting to cook or serve the public in that capacity. Dierdre’s Beauty Shop appealed to her sense of vanity, so she rejected it on that basis. Jon’s Laundry service and Bessie’s Bakery were immediate no’s. Striker’s Mercantile provided a respectable possibility, but when she spotted The New Northwest, her heart skipped a beat. If anything, diction and good literature had been a major part of her schooling. She’d written in a diary her entire life and enjoyed putting fancy words on paper.
There was another daily newspaper close by, for the industry was spreading like wildfire – there were a whopping thirteen in Oregon alone. Journalism would make for a good future, should Tariana choose to remain single. Between the two options, she was partial to get alongside the new sister project, openly supported and inspired by the famous Abigail Duniway. Tariana recalled the debates when, in 1871, the bold woman had stood firm against her conservative-minded brother who ran The Oregonian. She had retaliated by starting up The New Northwest in Portland, using her platform to speak for women’s rights. It was her belief that women should have the right to vote, an idea tolerated by few men and secretly admired by timid ladies. Tariana had no solid convictions concerning the issue – her upbringing would shun the idea – but she also knew the Good Lord had provided her with intelligence and maybe even a few golden nuggets to share with the world.
The owner of this sister-business, The New Northwest, was independent, but wise and not so outspoken as her mentor. It appeared the owner knew how to get her message across without facing severe backlash from her peers. She was a respected member of the community, for the most part. Hopefully, Father would support Tariana’s involvement in such a controversial and often dangerous occupation. Not everyone enjoyed the truth being spilled across the pages for public viewing. For a moment, she debated playing it safe and seeking employment at another newspaper, perhaps the one that included The Lovelorn column, but the pull to be a part of something bigger than herself was strong.
Tariana walked inside the open door and breathed in the strong smell of ink and paper. A woman stood with her back to the entrance, busying herself at the press. Her frame was strong, much like the character she portrayed to the townsfolk, and Tariana recalled admiring the new entrepreneur when she’d arrived in town.
“Good morning, Miss Freedman,” Tariana said.
The woman spun around and offered her a welcoming smile. “Good day. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve noticed that your paper is gaining popularity with the community. It’s a big responsibility for a single person, and I wondered if you could use some help.”
The spinster grinned. “I know you – you’re the preacher’s daughter, right?”
“Yes. Miss Tariana Gracin, almost eighteen years old with a good mind and eager to make folks aware of important news items as they happen. I am also drilled in correct English classes and can assist with proof reading. I have noticed a few spelling errors in past editions,” she added, hoping not to offend.
“Ah, yes. That is not one of my gifts, I’m afraid.” She wiped her hands on her soiled bib-apron. “What other qualifications do you bring to the table?”
“I know the community. Notions that will find acceptance and those that won’t. I enjoy writing, although I’ve not done it professionally. Should you wish for me to tackle a piece, I’d be honored. As far as operating the press, my mother says I am a quick learner, and of all my sisters, the most industrious.”
“Are you timid, or do you like to take risks?”
“Not timid or overly cautious, ma’am. Unconventional independence has gotten me into trouble many times in the past, although I believe I have matured enough to present a balance to the public.”
“Does your family know you’re here today?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t see it as a problem. My chores won’t suffer, and the newspaper is not open on Sundays, which would be my father’s biggest argument.”
“You expect an argument?”
“Nothing good happens in life without a bit of friction.”
“Well said, Miss Gracin.” The woman moved closer to study Tariana. “As much as I hate to admit it, I do need help. I was contemplating putting a sign in the window, but was secretly afraid that a domineering man might apply. I put out one paper weekly and fill it with everything pertaining to women’s issues and community events. Our clientele is largely female, but I know men are reading the columns because when I present that edgy side of a particular subject, men tend to give me an earful.”
“So, are you interested in procuring help,
