The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection
Page 13
The woman’s eyes shifted to Morgan.
“I saw him take the spill, Mrs. Goldsmith.” He set the bike on the ground, leaning it against the porch. “When I saw the bike was damaged, I offered to bring Owen home. His knee’s banged up.”
The woman knelt on the porch to examine Owen’s injury, saying not a word about the torn trouser leg.
From the look of things, Morgan guessed the Goldsmith family was none too prosperous. The house could use a coat of paint, and the porch sagged at one end. He wondered if they would have the funds to fix that bicycle wheel. Probably not. The kid’s spill would mean no bike riding for a while.
Mrs. Goldsmith stood and looked at him. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name so I can thank you properly.”
“I’m sorry.” He removed his hat. “I’m Morgan McKinley.”
“Oh, you’re the other candidate for mayor.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll be voting for Miss Arlington. I’ve known her for a number of years, and she is a fine young woman.”
He smiled to let her know he took no offense at her honesty. “That’s all right. I understand. I’m sure my worthy opponent has many friends who feel as you do. But I hope I can change at least a few minds.”
“Well, there’s a good chance you’ll get my husband’s vote. He doesn’t much cotton to the idea of a woman mayor.” From the stiff way she held herself and the tone of her voice, it was obvious her husband’s attitude grated on Mrs. Goldsmith. But her expression softened as she added, “I do thank you for your kindness to my son, Mr. McKinley.”
“Glad I could be of service, ma’am.” He pointed at the tear in Owen’s trousers. “You take care of that knee.”
“It don’t even hurt anymore,” the boy replied.
Morgan put his hat on his head. “Good day to you both.”
“Good day, Mr. McKinley.”
Morgan turned on his heel and strode back to his car. He couldn’t help but wonder if the votes for mayor might be split along gender lines. Would the women of Bethlehem Springs vote for Gwen and the men for him? Hmm. Might be that quite a few men would vote for her simply because of how pretty she was.
If I wasn’t running, I’ d vote for her myself.
The family was seated around the table, her father saying grace, when Gwen heard the put-putter-put of the automobile again. Almost against her will, her eyes opened and she glanced toward the front door in time to see Morgan drive past. Only a brief glimpse, but to her chagrin, her heart hiccuped at the sight of him. To make matters worse, when she turned to bow her head again, she caught Cleo watching her with a knowing gaze.
This Sunday was going from bad to worse.
She whispered, “Amen” at the close of the blessing, then passed the platter of meat to their father.
“Everything looks delicious as usual.” He began to carve the roast into thick, juicy slices.
“Thank you, Dad.”
“I heard that Mr. McKinley attended church at All Saints this morning.” There was a hint of mirth in Cleo’s voice. “Did you see him there?”
Gwen pretended not to notice that her sister was fishing for information. “Yes, I saw him.”
“Did you speak to him?”
Gwen felt heat rise in her cheeks as she scooped some potatoes and onions onto her plate. “Yes, we spoke briefly.”
“He’s gained the support of many of the men in our congregation,” their father said. “I suppose that’s to be expected. But Cleo and I will do our best to change their minds before the election. Too bad we live too far out to have an actual vote.”
Would any of them be able to do enough? Gwen hated knowing that many men of her acquaintance would still choose Morgan because he was a man. It hurt worse that many women would vote for him for the same reason. A lot was riding on next Saturday’s debate. More than she’d thought when she accepted the offer to participate.
Will it be so terrible if he wins? Perhaps not, but she wasn’t giving up.
At least he seemed to want the same things for Bethlehem Springs that Gwen wanted — better schools, new jobs and prosperity for the people of the town, fairness and integrity in the local government. That was some comfort.
Cleo intruded on Gwen’s thoughts, saying, “If it’s all right with you, Gwennie, I’d like to come back tomorrow and stay with you for the rest of the week. Then I can visit every home and business in Bethlehem Springs and encourage everyone to turn out for the debate on Saturday. Don’t you worry. You’ll show them that you’re made of the right stuff. Morgan’s a likeable sort, but he hasn’t got the heart for this town the way you do. They’ll see that for themselves come Saturday.”
“Oh, Cleo. I hope you’re right.”
After a quick look around — no one else in sight — Harrison Carter climbed the steps that led to the living quarters above the High Horse Saloon. He rapped sharply on the door and waited. When his knock wasn’t answered, he let himself in. The apartment was dark, the curtains drawn over the windows.
“Tattersall?”
He was about to leave when he heard sounds from what he assumed to be the bedroom.
“Tattersall, I’d like to speak to you a moment. It’s Harrison Carter.”
More sounds from the other room, louder this time, followed by a string of curse words. Moments later, Hiram Tattersall appeared in the doorway, sliding his suspenders up to his shoulders, his upper body clad only in his underwear.
Hung-over, no doubt.
Tattersall blinked a few times, yawned, then said, “Never expected to see you here.”
“Neither did I.”
“And on a Sunday to boot.”
“Tattersall, I’m here about the election. I want you to withdraw your name from the ballot.”
“You what?” The man scratched his left armpit.
“I want you to withdraw as a candidate for mayor.”
“Why should I?”
Harrison’s eyes narrowed. The man was such a fool. Didn’t he know who he was talking to? “There are many reasons, but suffice it to say that if you do not, you will find your saloon tied up in so many legal entanglements that Prohibition will be the least of your concerns. Because it just may be that I can find you’ve broken enough laws that they’ll send you to the state penitentiary.” He took a step closer to Tattersall and lowered his voice. “Because not to do as I request could be the worst thing you ever do. Do I make myself clear?”
Perhaps Hiram Tattersall wasn’t a complete fool. He stopped asking questions. Gave up any pretense of arguing. “Guess I wasn’t going to win anyway. Not with you backing that little gal.”
“You’ll see to the details tomorrow, I trust.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Carter. I’ll see to them tomorrow.”
“Good.” Harrison turned toward the door. “I’m sure you are doing so for the good of the town. Good day, Tattersall.”
EIGHTEEN
A refreshing breeze blew off the mountains as Gwen walked toward the mercantile, carrying a basket in the crook of her arm. The sky was a pristine blue, dotted with cotton-ball clouds. It was the same sort of day that had made her fall in love with Bethlehem Springs that first summer in Idaho.
A tiny bell sounded overhead as she stepped into the store. From a room in the back, she heard Bert Humphrey call, “Be right with you.”
“No hurry, Mr. Humphrey.”
She started down one of the aisles. If Cleo planned to stay with her all week, she would need to stock up on supplies. Her sister might be female, tall, and thin, but she had an appetite as big as any of the cowpokes who worked the Arlington ranch. Not to mention her sweet tooth. Gwen planned to bake a cake later this morning, hopefully before her sister arrived.
The bell chimed again, and Gwen looked back to see who had entered the store. It was Owen’s mother, Kitty Goldsmith, carrying a basket of eggs in her arms.
When their gazes met, Gwen said, “Good morning, Kitty.”
Kitty gave her a slight sm
ile that must have taken all her energy. The woman always looked exhausted. Her life was not an easy one, caring for her three children and for her husband, Patton, who had been injured in an accident at the sawmill three years earlier. To support their family, Kitty sold fresh eggs, worked as a seamstress, and took in laundry. Patton did odd jobs, as he was able — which wasn’t often enough.
“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Gwen said, wishing she could help ease her neighbor’s burdens. Kitty was only six years Gwen’s senior, but she looked twenty years older. “It won’t be long before true summer is upon us.”
Kitty nodded. “I hope it won’t get too hot too soon.”
“I hope so too.” She shifted the basket to her other arm. “I wanted to tell you how well Owen is doing with his piano lessons. You must be so proud of him.”
Another little smile, this one staying a fraction longer. “I am.”
“Do you go with him when he practices at the Evans’s house?”
Kitty shook her head.
“Then come with him to his next lesson. I know you’d be blessed by his progress.”
“I’ll try.” She sighed. “I’m just grateful his hands weren’t injured when he fell yesterday. They could have been.”
“His hands? What fall?”
“Owen had an accident on his bicycle yesterday. The wheel was bent up. It’s ruined, far as I can tell. Heaven knows when there will be any money to repair it or replace it.”
“You say his hands are okay. Was he otherwise injured?”
“He scraped his knee but nothing serious. Mr. McKinley saw the accident and drove him home in his automobile. Owen loved that part. He’s never had the opportunity to ride in a car before.”
Gwen recalled the sound of the motorcar passing her house the previous day. Not once but twice. That must have been where he’d gone. To take Owen home.
“He’s a very genial man, isn’t he?” Kitty continued. “He was so kind to Owen. But I told him you would have my vote.”
Gwen patted Kitty’s hand where it rested on the handle of her basket. “I appreciate your loyalty.”
“After all the kindnesses you’ve shown my family, how could I do otherwise?”
Her neighbor’s reply took her aback a little. “I hope you think I will make a good mayor. I wouldn’t want to be elected for any other reason.”
Whatever Kitty might have said next was interrupted by the appearance of Bert Humphrey from the back of the store. “How can I help you ladies?”
“I’ve brought you some eggs, Mr. Humphrey,” Kitty answered as she walked toward him.
“He’s a very genial man, isn’t he?”
Indeed. Mr. McKinley was genial — and too much on her mind.
To distract his thoughts from the lovely Gwen Arlington — and to remove the temptation of going to see her uninvited once again — Morgan drove to the building site late on Monday morning. The workers had made noticeable progress since his last visit.
Fagan greeted him with a cheery “Halloo!” as he strode across the yard. “Sure and I didn’t expect to be seeing you again this soon.”
“I’m surprised myself. It’s a hard habit to break, being up here every day. But it looks like I’m not needed. No more vandalism, I take it.”
“One of the guards thought he heard someone moving around the bathhouse a couple of nights back, but if anyone was there he was scared off. No sign of him come morning. No mischief done.”
Morgan nodded, not happy to hear there might have been another trespasser prowling around the site. Still, as there’d been no damage —
“Stonemasons ought to begin their work inside the lodge next week.”
“What about the prayer chapel?”
“The men have made a good start on it. Sure and I’m thinking it won’t take long to finish.”
“Good. I want the chapel given high priority, Fagan.”
“I’ll pass that word along to Christopher. He’ll see to it.”
The two men walked side by side toward the lodge. Once inside the enormous lobby, Morgan stopped and breathed in the scent of lumber that filled the air. In his mind’s eye, he saw the room completed and fully furnished. He imagined guests of all ages and of all classes sitting throughout, visiting, laughing, their faces shining with improved health. In the dining room, he pictured guests drinking tea in the afternoon or eating a delicious, healthy meal in the evening.
With everything that he was, everything he believed, he was convinced the New Hope Health Spa was supposed to be here, on this land, in this place. He couldn’t allow Harrison Carter and his political cronies to impede the completion of this resort.
Ask Rudyard.
Morgan turned toward Fagan, but his friend was inspecting the doorframe and obviously had not spoken to him.
Ask Rudyard.
The words tugged at him, insistent on being understood.
Rudyard… Rudyard…
His eyes widened. Of course. Senator William Rudyard. A long-time friend of his mother’s. Was it possible he could be of some help? The senator was a man of influence, both within Idaho and beyond. Yes, he just might be able to help Morgan — with his problems with the commissioners and with winning the election. He would contact him immediately.
Maybe it was time for him to arrange for a dinner party. The reason for hiring a household staff was so he could entertain, to build rapport with other citizens of Bethlehem Springs, and as a result perhaps win their votes in the election. He couldn’t depend upon the debate to bring him all the votes he would need to win.
Trouble was, whenever he pictured himself sitting down at the long dinner table with a room full of guests, he always imagined Gwen seated at the other end.
Cleo was full of excitement when she arrived in the early afternoon. “Have you heard?” she asked Gwen as she led her horse toward the small stable at the back of Gwen’s lot. “Tattersall withdrew from the race for mayor this morning. Now it’s between just you and Morgan.”
“Yes, I heard.”
Gwen didn’t know whether to feel worried or glad. If everyone who’d planned to vote for Tattersall — surely there couldn’t be very many of them — chose to vote for Morgan, it could mean he had the edge. On the other hand, it was a relief to know there was no chance that a known drunkard would be their next mayor.
“How did you hear about it so quickly?” she asked as Cleo removed the saddle from her gelding and led the animal into the second of two stalls.
“I saw Charles Benson as I rode into town, and he told me.” Cleo pushed her hair away from her face. “He asked after you.”
“I hope you told him I was well.”
“Poor Charlie. Do you suppose he’ll ever give up on winning your heart?”
“I hope so. I haven’t encouraged him in the least.”
“Gwennie, if you so much as smile at a man, he’s going to take it as encouragement. You oughta know that by now.”
“Sometimes you say the silliest things.”
Cleo laughed. “And you haven’t a clue about the power you have over men. You’re the prettiest woman within five hundred miles, and they want to swarm around you like bees to a hive.”
Irritated now, Gwen turned and hurried toward the house. It was bad enough when men thought her nothing more than a pretty face with an empty head. It was worse when her beloved twin teased her about it.
Maybe I’d be taken seriously if I started wearing trousers and smoking a pipe. She shuddered at the thought.
“Gwennie?” Cleo stepped into the kitchen, contrition in her eyes. “I’m sorry. You know I don’t mean to upset you like that. I was only funning you.”
Gwen turned, her vexation already spent. “I know.” She could never stay angry with her sister for long. “You’re forgiven.”
“Thanks, sis.” Cleo clasped her in a tight embrace. “Truth is, I’ve got a bit of man trouble of my own.”
Gwen took a step back so she could look her sister in the eye.
Cleo in love? Gwen hoped this King fellow was worthy of her.
“I think he likes me too,” Cleo continued as she settled onto a chair at the kitchen table. “But he sure is slow letting me know for sure.”
Gwen sat opposite her sister and took hold of her right hand. “I’m sure he will when the time is right.”
“I hope so.” Cleo inhaled deeply, then gave her head a shake. “But that’s not what I’m here for. Let’s get down to business. What’s our strategy now that Tattersall has withdrawn?”
“No different. My greatest hurdle is the fact that I’m a woman.”
Cleo screwed up her mouth. “Hmm.” She tapped the fingers of her left hand on the table. Then her eyes widened. “I know. You write down what you see as the two or three most important issues facing Bethlehem Springs. Then when I go to talk to folks, I can share your own words with them. Afterward, I’ll invite them to come to the debate on Saturday. It will give t hem a chance to see that you can think like a mayor and hold your ground with any man.”
“I hope that’s what they’ll see.” Gwen released Cleo’s hand. “I’m starting to feel nervous. Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to the debate. Maybe it will convince more people to vote for Mr. McKinley than for me.”
“Well, if that’s the outcome, I guess we’ll have to believe it’s God’s will. Won’t we?”
Strange, the way Cleo’s words broke through the worry that had been swirling inside Gwen. Her sister was right. She must leave the results in God’s hands. If He wanted her to be the mayor, then it would come about, and if not, then better she lose.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out, then stood. “I’ll get some writing paper and prepare my comments for you. And while I’m working on that” — she pointed toward the layer cake on the counter — “why don’t you cut yourself a piece of cake? I made it for you.”
“Well, if that don’t make me as happy as a pup with two tails.” Cleo whipped off her hat and hung it on the spindle of her chair, then made a beeline for the triple-layer cake.