The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Good morning, Mother. Sir.”

  “Good morning, Sherwood.” His mother turned her head and tilted it to one side to accommodate his kiss on the cheek.

  “It was good of you to accept Griff’s invitation,” he said, looking at his father.

  The duke gave an abbreviated nod of his head. “I hope that you and I shall have time to talk privately. There are matters we must discuss.”

  “Of course.” He doubted that would be an enjoyable conversation, but it was one he couldn’t avoid. “We can use Griff’s office. But perhaps it can wait until after we dine and you’ve had a chance to see more of the ranch.”

  His father agreed with a curt nod.

  “Come inside.” Sherwood offered his arm to his mother. “Cleo will join us shortly.” He escorted his parents inside where they sat on the sofa, side by side. “Excuse me while I let Mr. Arlington know you’ve arrived.” He left the parlor and went into the kitchen.

  “He went down to the creek to pray,” Cookie answered when Sherwood asked after Griff. “He must have lost track of time. Are your parents here?”

  “Yes, they’re here.”

  “Well, you go on back to them, and I’ll send one of the boys to fetch the boss.”

  “Thank you, Cookie.”

  He left the kitchen but stopped in the dining room when he heard Cleo’s voice. She was in the parlor, talking to his parents. Her words were polite, but she didn’t sound like herself. She was trying hard to be something she wasn’t, making herself over into a suitable daughter-in-law for a duke and duchess.

  Making herself into a proper wife.

  In all of his life, he had never known such sacrificial love as he’d witnessed in Cleo. She was prepared to turn her back on everything and everyone she loved—this ranch, Bethlehem Springs, her father and sister—all for him. She would try to make herself over into that proper wife the duke demanded for his son.

  But I don’t want a proper wife. I want a real one. I don’t want to be a lawyer or a vicar in England. I want to help manage a cattle ranch with Cleo at my side.

  And with that, his prayers were answered. He saw everything with a clarity that hadn’t been there before. He’d found God’s purpose.

  Why should Cleo have to change? To please his father? She would never be able to change enough to please the duke. And what about himself? Who would he be in England? The old Lord Sherwood or the man he’d become here on this ranch—the man Cleo loved, Woody Statham?

  “Darling.” He stepped into the doorway of the parlor. “I’m a fool.”

  She rose from the chair, looking pretty in a pale-yellow blouse and brown skirt. But she didn’t look like his Cleo.

  His father muttered, “Isn’t that what I’ve told him? That he’s been a fool.”

  Sherwood ignored the duke. “You don’t want to go to England, Cleo. You don’t want to leave this ranch and your family and friends.”

  “What are you saying?” Her voice quivered and her face grew pale.

  “Why should you leave? Why should I leave?” He moved toward her.

  “Sherwood!” The duke stood. “I will speak to you in private.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off of Cleo. “Not now, Father. Right now I have something to say to my bride.”

  “By heavens, it will be now! I’ve listened to enough of your nonsense over the past five days, and I will listen no more.”

  Sherwood released a silent sigh as he faced his father. “Then say whatever you wish to say here and now. I’m listening.” He waved his hand around the room. “We’re all listening.”

  The duke, his face flushed, sputtered in anger.

  From the corner of his eye, Sherwood saw Griff enter the front door, then hesitate when he heard the duke begin to shout.

  “I forbid you to marry this woman, and that is final. Sending you to America was supposed to bring you to your senses. It was supposed to separate you from those reprobates you called friends and those females who wanted nothing but my money. It was supposed to make you responsible. I will not allow our family’s good name to be harmed by an unwise union.”

  Sherwood’s right hand curled into a fist. How he would like to—

  “Don’t, son.” Griff gripped Sherwood’s left shoulder, drawing his gaze. The older man shook his head before moving two steps into the parlor. “Statham, I’d like to stop you before you say anything more you’ll regret.”

  “This is none of your concern, Mr. Arlington.”

  “Well, now, that’s where you’re wrong. This is my concern. It concerns my daughter and the young man who’s going to be my son-in-law. You’re in my house, and I believe that gives me a right to decide what goes on here.” Griff motioned toward the sofa. “Now why don’t you sit down.”

  “I will not!”

  “Suit yourself.” Griff looked over his shoulder at Sherwood. “Woody, would you take a seat over there with Cleo?”

  “Of course.” He strode across the room and took hold of Cleo’s hand as the two of them sat down, Cleo in the chair, Sherwood on the arm of the chair. The silence in the room was deafening, but it didn’t last long.

  Griff took another step closer to the duke, looking him in the eye with an unflinching gaze. The kind few had the courage to use on Dagwood Statham. “It’s my understanding that your son was living hard, drinking too much, gambling too much, womanizing too much. That’s why you sent him to America. Is that right?”

  The duke grunted.

  “Well, let me tell you about the young man I’ve come to know. He’s worked hard from the day he got here. Now I realize at first it was because he had nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. He was stuck on this ranch because he had no money, no friends, no mode of transportation, no way of escape. He didn’t much care for living in our bunkhouse or taking orders from Cleo.” He glanced at Sherwood, then back at the duke. “But he did his best. You wanted him to change. Well, he changed. He’s a young man I feel privileged to know. One I’m proud to think of as a son. One I’m glad to welcome to my family.”

  Raw emotions burned in Sherwood’s throat as he rose to his feet. “Thanks, Griff.” The words came out in a hoarse whisper, and he felt Cleo squeeze his hand. He looked at her, smiled, then let go and moved several steps closer to his parents. “Mr. Arlington is right, Father. I’ve changed. Maybe not in the ways you wanted me to, but in the ways that matter. I don’t belong in your world any longer. I don’t want to belong in it. I’m going to stay here and marry the woman I love and try to become an even better man than I am today because of her. You can stay for the wedding or you can go back to England. It’s up to you.”

  The flush returned to his father’s face. “Jane,” he said to his wife, “come with me. We’re leaving.” Without another word he strode out of the house.

  Sherwood’s mother rose from the sofa. A sad smile flitted across her lips as she moved to stand before him. “I’ll talk to your father. Give him time.” She placed the palm of one hand against the side of his face. “I’m proud of you, Sherwood, and I shall miss you terribly.” With a tearful wave toward Cleo, she hurried after her husband.

  Sherwood swallowed the lump in his throat as he turned around.

  Cleo stood. Tears streaked her cheeks. “Are you sure?” she whispered.

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. We belong here, the both of us.” He drew her into his arms, ignoring Griff. “If I’m not mistaken, you didn’t fall in love with Lord Sherwood and probably never could have. Why should you have to love him now?”

  More tears glittered in her eyes, but she smiled through them.

  He leaned close, his mouth hovering near hers. “Say it,” he whispered.

  “Say what?”

  “Say you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  “More.”

  “More?”

  “I…love…you…” He raised his voice in question.

  Understanding filled her eyes. “I love you…Woody.”
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  He kissed her, feeling almost as if it were for the first time, and silently thanked God for every circumstance, every failure that had brought him to America, to this ranch, to this woman, and to this moment.

  A Matter of Character

  Let the words of my mouth,

  and the meditation of my heart,

  be acceptable in thy sight,

  O LORD, my strength, and my redeemer.

  Psalm 19:14

  PROLOGUE

  ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI, AUGUST 1918

  Propelled by a white hot fury, Joshua Crawford pushed open the door to Gregory Halifax’s office so hard it hit the wall with a loud wham. Startled, Gregory looked up a split second before Joshua slapped the newspaper onto the desk.

  “What is this garbage?” Joshua demanded.

  Gregory’s expression changed from one of surprise to a smirk. “So you read it.”

  “Of course I read it, and I’m here to demand a retraction.”

  “A retraction? For what?”

  “For what you wrote about my grandfather.”

  Gregory laughed softly. “You must be joking. The article is about dime novelists. The part about Richard Terrell was the words of the author, not mine.”

  “But you made what Mr. Morgan wrote in his novels sound as if it was fact rather than fiction. It’s not.”

  “How do you know it’s not? Tell me. What do you know about your grandfather before he settled in St. Louis? Nothing, that’s what. You’ve said so yourself.”

  “Did you contact anyone in Idaho to try to confirm that the character in Morgan’s books is based on the real Richard Terrell?”

  “I didn’t need to. I interviewed the publishers for my story. And again, the focus of my article is the men who write dime novels, not on the characters found in their books.”

  “But in the process you’ve dragged my grandfather’s good name through the mud. I want a retraction.”

  Gregory pushed back his chair and stood, the smile gone from his face. “When you prove anything I wrote is in error, then come see me again, and we’ll have this discussion. Until then, get out.”

  For one moment, Joshua thought he might be able to control his temper. For one very brief moment—just before he caught Gregory’s jaw with a right hook followed by a left jab to the gut. Gregory flew backward into the wall. The glass in the office door rattled again. Joshua readied himself for the other man to fight back. To his dissatisfaction, it didn’t happen. Gregory’s eyes were still unfocused when more men poured into the office and grabbed Joshua by the arms, hauling him away. One of the men was Joshua’s boss, Langston Lee.

  “You’re fired, Crawford. Collect your things and get out. I won’t have my reporters brawling. You hear me. Get out or I’ll call the police.”

  Joshua longed to turn his rage onto his boss, to give Langston Lee a little of what he’d already given Gregory Halifax. But he had enough good sense left to resist the urge. He was already out of a job. He didn’t want to spend time in a jail cell besides.

  But so help him, he would get a retraction out of this newspaper. He would prove Gregory Halifax was a shoddy reporter and see that he was fired. He would hear Langston Lee apologize. And he would make certain D. B. Morgan never again maligned his grandfather in print.

  This wasn’t over yet.

  ONE

  OCTOBER 1918

  Maybe it was time to kill Rawhide Rick. He’d served his purpose, the old rascal. He’d hunted buffalo and fought Indians and stolen gold from hardworking miners and sent men to the gallows. Now might be the time for him to meet his Maker. The trick was deciding how to kill him.

  Daphne McKinley rose from her desk and walked into the parlor, where she pushed aside the curtains at the window.

  A golden haze blanketed Bethlehem Springs. It had been a beautiful autumn. The prettiest one yet in her three years in this serene Idaho mountain town. The trees had been the brightest of golds, the most fiery of reds, the deepest of greens. Daphne had spent many a mild afternoon walking trails through the forest, enjoying the colors and the smells.

  If Rawhide Rick—who by this point in the series of books had become the infamous Judge Richard Terrell—was dead, what would become of the dashing Bill McFarland, hero of The McFar-land Chronicles? Without his arch enemy, his life might become rather dull. Or perhaps it was Daphne who would find life dull without Rawhide Rick. Wicked he was, but he certainly kept things interesting whenever he was around.

  She rubbed her eyelids with the tips of her fingers, and when she pulled them away, she noticed ink stains on her right hand. Her fountain pen was leaking. Perhaps it was time to buy a typewriter. But would writing on a machine feel the same?

  Daphne turned from the window, her gaze sweeping the parlor. She’d come to love this small house on Wallula Street. Since moving into it soon after Gwen—its previous owner—married Daphne’s brother, she’d delighted in making it her home, decorating and furnishing it in ways that pleased her. Daphne’s childhood homes had been large and filled with servants waiting to attend to her slightest wish. But she had often been forced to live by the timetables of others. Now she could do as she willed, when she willed. The freedom she enjoyed was intoxicating.

  The best part was when she wanted to be with family, she got into her motorcar—her very own, quite wonderful McLaughlin-Buick—and drove to her brother’s home to play with her young nephew and infant niece. She was completely dotty over the two of them. She loved to crawl around on the floor with Andy—he would turn two at the end of November—the both of them squealing and giggling. And there was nothing like cuddling three-month-old Ellie. Daphne thought the baby girl smelled like sunshine.

  A sigh escaped her. She hadn’t time for daydreaming about Morgan’s and Gwen’s darling children. She must decide what to do. If she was going to kill the judge, she needed to notify Elwood Shriver at once. Wavering in indecisiveness served no good purpose.

  She returned to her small office. The floor around her desk was littered with wadded sheets of paper. It was always thus when words frustrated her. “So wasteful,” she scolded softly.

  As she sat down, she took up the five-day-old newspaper. News of the war half a world away was splashed across the front page. More than a million American men—just boys, many of them—were now fighting in Europe alongside the Allied Powers. The end was near, some said. She prayed to God they were right. Too many had died already. Others, like Woody Statham, would wear the scars from their war wounds for the remainder of their lives—if not on their bodies then in their souls.

  She flipped through several more pages of the newspaper, but nothing she read captured her imagination or sparked her creativity. Besides, she’d read every article before, some of them several times.

  Maybe her problem wasn’t with Rawhide Rick. Maybe the problem was Bill McFarland. Maybe she was tired of him. Maybe he should die.

  “Maybe the whole lot of them should perish,” she muttered as she laid the newspaper aside.

  She spun her chair toward the bookcase beneath the office window. There, on the bottom row, were copies of The McFarland Chronicles by D. B. Morgan, all ten volumes. And if she didn’t decide soon what to do about Rawhide Rick, ten volumes would be all there were.

  There was no question that Daphne loved writing stories of adventure and danger in the West of forty and fifty years ago. And while she would concede that her books were not great literature, they were entertaining, for readers and for herself. But there were days like today when she was tempted to contact her editor in New York City and tell him that she (D. B. McKinley, whom Elwood Shriver thought to be a man) was retiring and thus so must D. B. Morgan (the pseudonym used on her books). However, she knew she would miss the storytelling were she to give it up. After all, it didn’t take much effort to clean her small house or cook the occasional meal. Without her writing pursuits, what would she do with her time?

  It would be nice if she could discuss her feelings with someone, but
there wasn’t another person, in Bethlehem Springs or elsewhere, who knew she was the author of dime novels. She wasn’t sure her brother would believe her if she told him. The only soul who might suspect anything was Dedrik Finster, the Bethlehem Springs postmaster, because of the mail she sent and received, but his English wasn’t the best and he probably had no idea that Shriver & Sons was a publishing company. Why would he?

  Maybe what she needed more than anything was a drive out to the Arlington ranch and a long visit with Griff Arlington, Gwen and Cleo’s father. That man had given her more story ideas in the last three years than she could ever hope to put on paper. It was Griff who had told her about the escapades of the real-life Richard Terrell, every bit as much a scoundrel as her fictional character, although perhaps in different ways. Yes, a visit with Griff was just what the doctor ordered.

  Her mind made up, she rose and went in search of hat, gloves, and coat.

  Joshua stepped from the passenger car onto the platform and looked about him. A large family—father, mother, and six children—were being escorted into the railroad station by a young man in a blue uniform. They were on their way to a hot springs resort located north of Bethlehem Springs. He knew this because they had spoken of little else during the journey, and Joshua couldn’t have helped but overhear their conversation as they’d been a rather boisterous group.

  He, on the other hand, was headed into the town that appeared to be about a quarter mile or so up a dirt road that passed between two low-slung hills. Switching his valise to the opposite hand, he set off in that direction.

  The first building he saw upon entering Bethlehem Springs was a church. All Saints Presbyterian, according to the sign out front. Catty-corner from All Saints was the Daily Herald, his destination. He crossed the street and entered the newspaper office. Familiar smells—newsprint, ink, dust—filled his nostrils.