Bleary-eyed, Daphne made her way to the kitchen, where she set about making herself a pot of coffee. There were days when she wished she had a maid and a cook to take care of her. She could certainly afford such luxuries, but she would hate having others about the house while she worked.
Once the coffeepot was on the stove, she went to the door to see if a newspaper had been left on the front porch. There wasn’t one. Again. Disappointment shot through her. How much longer would Bethlehem Springs be cut off from news of the country and the world?
“Maybe I should offer Mrs. Patterson my services,” she said aloud.
Drawing the collar of her dressing gown together against the chilled morning air, she closed the door. But as she turned toward the kitchen, the thought repeated itself. Perhaps she should offer Christina Patterson her services. Before Gwen married Morgan, she’d written a regular column for the Daily Herald. Daphne could do the same. In fact, there were probably several roles she could fill, at least until Christina hired someone to manage and edit the newspaper for her.
The idea of tackling something new held more than a little appeal. She could let Bill’s next adventure sit and stew for a while. She’d hit another wall with her writing late last night and was back to wondering if she should kill Rawhide Rick or perhaps draw the chronicles to a close. Even that new unnamed character with the astonishing eyes couldn’t seem to stir her creativity. It might do her good to step back from the story for a while. It would be temporary. A few weeks or a couple of months at most. That’s all. She could help a widow in her time of grief and provide a service for the town, and when she returned to her latest story, she could do so with renewed enthusiasm and fresh ideas.
She sighed, thinking how nice it would be if she could talk to someone about this book and the problems she was having with it. Her sister-in-law would be the ideal person. Gwen was adept at looking at things from many different angles. She could probably come up with solutions for Daphne’s latest novel in short order.
Two weeks ago, Gwen had asked Daphne if she wasn’t bored with so little to do. She’d almost laughed aloud. So little to do? With another deadline hanging over her head? If only she could have told her sister-in-law about her writing. But she couldn’t. The only way to make certain that the true identity of D. B. Morgan remained a secret was to be the only person who knew the truth. Someday, perhaps, she would tell others. But not yet.
She couldn’t imagine how Morgan would react if he learned she’d authored a series of dime novels filled with buffalo, horses, trappers, cattle rustlers, mining disasters, wild Indians, gunfight-ers, and a hanging judge. But she was quite certain he wouldn’t think it a proper occupation for his sister. She’d been groomed for a much different life. There were certain things expected of a well-educated, unmarried young woman of large fortune. Writing dime novels wasn’t among them. And even if her brother reacted without censure, the news would cause a scandal among her friends and acquaintances in the East.
She glanced around her cozy little home and knew many of those friends and acquaintances would be equally scandalized by her living conditions, irrespective of the work she did there. As it was, none of them understood why she chose to remain in this small town in the mountains of Idaho, and no matter how many times she tried to explain how happy she was in her new life, they refused to believe it.
It didn’t take Joshua long on his first morning at the Daily Herald to discover that Nathan Patterson had been a fine journalist but not the most organized of businessmen. Newspapers and file folders covered desktops and cabinets. More of the same were stacked on the floor. And while the printing press and other equipment were in good shape, the record keeping was almost nonexistent.
Joshua’s first recommendation to Christina Patterson had to be that she change the newspaper from a daily—common in larger cities but difficult to maintain in any small town—to a triweekly. With the world at war, there was plenty of news for the front page seven days a week, but there wasn’t a lot of local news or enough advertising to fill up the remaining pages. It wasn’t financially responsible to continue as a daily. He didn’t know how Nathan had kept the paper afloat before this.
His second recommendation would be that she retain the services of Grant Henley, the Herald’s press operator whom Joshua had met yesterday. In their brief conversation, he’d learned that Grant—a friendly fellow in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a crooked grin—had a wealth of experience in typesetting and printing-press operation. He was obviously worth the wage he received, even with only three editions a week instead of seven.
His third recommendation would be for Christina Patterson to begin searching for someone to permanently take over the position Joshua now filled. But that recommendation could wait until the time was right, until after he’d found D. B. Morgan and achieved his purpose.
It was after twelve o’clock when the door to the newspaper office opened, admitting a young woman. The same one he’d seen in the restaurant the previous night. A man wasn’t likely to forget her. Her curly hair was abundant and as black as ink, and her large eyes were the color of rich, dark chocolate. Surprise crossed her pretty face as he rose from the chair behind the cluttered desk. It would seem she recognized him as well.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“I…I’m looking for Mrs. Patterson. Is she here?”
“Not at present.” He stepped around the desk, repeating, “May I help you?”
She recovered from her surprise. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.” He could almost hear her unspoken question at the end: And what are you doing back there, poking around where you don’t belong?
“No reason you should know me, miss. I’m new to Bethlehem Springs. Arrived only yesterday. Mrs. Patterson hired me to manage the newspaper for her.”
“Oh.”
“My name is Joshua Crawford.”
There was something regal about the way she held herself, her spine straight, her shoulders back, her head held high. “I’m Daphne McKinley.” She extended her right hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crawford.”
“Likewise.” He shook her hand—and wished he knew for sure if there was a Miss or a Mrs. in front of her last name.
“Well…” She took a step backward, her fingers slipping from his grasp. “I hope you shall find Bethlehem Springs to your liking.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you please tell Mrs. Patterson that Miss McKinley wishes to speak with her when she has a moment?”
Ah. Miss McKinley. “Of course.”
“Good day, Mr. Crawford.”
“Good day, Miss McKinley.”
She turned away, and seconds later, the door closed behind her.
Joshua watched through the window until the sidewalk carried her out of sight. A slight accent—he had a good ear for such things—told him she hailed from the East. Massachusetts, more than likely. Everything about her appearance, carriage, and speech said she was a woman of privilege. She didn’t fit Joshua’s image of the sort of person who would choose to settle in a remote town like this one.
He returned to his cluttered desk, but his thoughts remained on Miss McKinley. He’d seen intelligence in those large, dark eyes of hers. Perhaps a hint of mischief as well? Yes, he thought so. And her mouth had seemed made for laughter. She was the sort of woman he would like to know better. Pretty and smart. He pictured her in his home in St. Louis, playing a parlor game with a group of his friends. It made a pleasant image in his mind.
However, if he were hosting an evening with friends, Mary Theresa would be there too. In which case, his attention wouldn’t—and shouldn’t—be focused on the lovely Miss McKinley from Bethlehem Springs.
Mary Theresa Donahue was the granddaughter of Richard Terrell’s closest friend, Kevin Donahue. Joshua had a dim memory of the two men sharing a toast in his grandfather’s parlor on the day Mary Theresa was born. He’d been five years old at the time. For as far back as he c
ould remember, it had been assumed by everyone they knew that he and Mary Theresa would marry. And on most days, he assumed the same. They liked each other, had much in common—and, as a child, Mary Theresa had loved his grandfather almost as much as he had. That always endeared her to Joshua.
With a shake of his head, Miss McKinley was forgotten. He needed to remain focused on his reason for being in Bethlehem Springs. And once he took care of the business that had brought him here, he would return to St. Louis. Maybe by then he would even be ready to marry Mary Theresa. His grandfather had left a small inheritance that would come to him on the day he wed. It wasn’t a great deal of money—Richard Terrell hadn’t been a wealthy man at the end of his life—but it was enough to help a young couple set up a household and to live in a modicum of comfort.
“Joshua,” his grandfather had said in one of their last conversations, “I’m leaving you a bit of money, but it won’t come to you until the day you marry. I don’t want you struggling to make ends meet when you take a wife, the way I see happen to many. You’re too young right now for it to mean much to you. That’s all right. You’ll be glad when the time comes.”
Had the time come? All of their friends had married long before this. If he was successful in finding D. B. Morgan, he would most likely win his job back. There wouldn’t be anything hindering a wedding then—if Mary Theresa was able to forgive him. They’d had a heated argument the week before he left St. Louis, one in which she’d called him pigheaded. He’d deserved the name too.
From the printing room in the back came the sound of a closing door. A moment later, Christina Patterson entered the front office. When she saw Joshua, she said, “Mr. Crawford, are you back from lunch already?”
“I never left.” He motioned toward the desk. “I’ve been going through your husband’s record books. There are a few things we should discuss.”
She removed her coat and hat and hung them both on the rack near the door. “I’m sure those matters can wait until you’ve eaten something.”
It would probably be better if he stayed on task. He suspected it would take a solid week of very long days, maybe even more than a week, before he had things as organized as he would like them to be. Still, a man had to eat.
“Go on, Mr. Crawford. A half an hour or so won’t make a difference.”
“I guess you’re right.” He retrieved his hat, then slipped his arms into the sleeves of his suit coat that had been draped over the desk chair. “Oh, Miss Daphne McKinley dropped by. She would like to speak with you when you have a moment.”
“Thank you. I’ll give her a call.”
With a nod, he headed out the door, making a shopping list in his mind as he walked toward the mercantile.
THREE
Daphne lifted her infant niece from the cradle in the front parlor and held her close to her chest. “Little girl, you are the most beautiful baby in the whole, wide world. Did you know that?” She brushed her lips across Ellie’s forehead and breathed in the sweet scent of her.
Gwen laughed softly. “Keep that up, Daphne, and you’ll have her head turned before she can walk.”
Ellie cooed and waved a fist in the air.
“Impossible. She will always be just as precious and perfect as she is today.
“Hmm.”
“Where’s my nephew?”
“Andy’s down for a nap. At last.”
The two women settled onto chairs near the fireplace.
“I have news to share,” Daphne said without taking her eyes from the baby.
“Good news, I hope.”
“I think it is. I’m going to take up your mantle at the Daily Herald.”
“My mantle?”
Daphne lifted her gaze to meet Gwen’s. “I’m going to write a weekly column for the paper. I met with Christina Patterson yesterday afternoon, and she seemed pleased with the sample writing I brought for her to see.”
“That’s wonderful, Daphne. And I assume that means Morgan will be able to read our local newspaper again soon?”
“Yes. Mrs. Patterson says they’ll have an edition out on Monday.”
“I’m glad about that. Bethlehem Springs needs its newspaper. I know things have been difficult for Christina, losing Nathan the way she did. So sudden and unexpected. It breaks my heart to think about it. He was a wonderful editor. So easy to work with. And when I ran for mayor, he encouraged and supported me in all the best possible ways.”
“Do you miss writing your column?”
A soft smile curved Gwen’s mouth as she shook her head. “Not really. At least not for now. I’m enjoying my role as a wife and mother too much. Perhaps that will change when Andy and Ellie are older.”
Daphne understood Gwen’s sentiments. But for herself, she had few incentives to change her life. She had money of her own and an occupation—although secret—that brought her pleasure. Before coming to Bethlehem Springs, she’d received two or three proposals of marriage a year. Did the men who’d asked for her hand do so because they loved her or because they loved her fortune? It was hard to know and, therefore, easy to decline. Perhaps if she fell in love, the way Gwen loved Morgan, it would be different. Never having loved a man, she couldn’t say for sure.
A distant memory drifted into her thoughts. No, she’d never loved a man, but she’d lost her heart to a boy the summer she turned sixteen. Henry Townsend was his name, and he’d come to stay for the summer with his cousins, neighbors of the McKinleys. Seventeen, handsome, tall, strong, and alive with laughter, Henry had drawn the attention of every female around. Daphne had been smitten like the rest of them, and he’d seemed to like her too. She’d written his name in her diary at least a thousand times in the days and weeks that followed. He’d been her first thought upon awakening and her last thought before falling asleep. She’d been certain they would be together forever. Her fantasies had been filled with images of their future. But then her father had died, and by the time she’d looked up from her grief, Henry had gone away. She’d never heard from him again.
Sixteen and seventeen. They’d been hardly more than children. Daphne was a woman now. Did a man exist who could turn her head and win her heart the way Henry had?
“When can we expect to see your first column?” Gwen asked, drawing Daphne’s attention to the present.
She gladly pushed away the perplexing question of love. “Next week, I think.” A pair of startling blue eyes slipped into her mind, prompting her to add, “But I haven’t told you all the news about the paper. Mrs. Patterson hired someone to take over the management of the Daily Herald. Only it isn’t going to be a daily any longer. Mr. Crawford suggested that it be changed to a triweekly paper. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And Mrs. Patterson agreed.”
“Who is Mr. Crawford?”
“The new managing editor.”
Ellie began to fuss, and Gwen held out her arms to take the baby from Daphne.
“He’s from St. Louis and came here to work as a reporter for the paper at Mr. Patterson’s invitation. But Mr. Patterson’s death changed everything, and Mrs. Patterson offered him the position as managing editor.”
Gwen drew a blanket over her shoulder, covering Ellie as she nursed. “Have you met Mr. Crawford? What’s he like?”
“We’ve met. Briefly.” In her mind, she saw Joshua Crawford looking at her, and she had to catch herself before she told her sister-in-law about his piercing, pale-blue eyes, about how they’d made her breath catch the other night in the restaurant, even before she could be sure of their color. Blue, as she’d confirmed yesterday in the newspaper office. A wonderfully unusual shade of blue. A color she had yet to be able to put into words for her book.
“And?” Gwen prompted.
She cleared her throat. “He seemed pleasant enough.”
“Good heavens, Daphne. Surely you can tell me more about him than that. You, who notices everything.”
She sighed, as if it were an effort to remember when, in truth, she remembered quite clearly.
“As I said, he’s from St. Louis. I’d guess he’s close to thirty years old. Fairly tall. His hair is brown and his eyes are blue.” Thank goodness she managed to say the latter without revealing how his eyes affected her. Gwen would totally misinterpret such an admission. “Oh, and he has a slight cleft here.” She touched her chin with an index finger as she spoke. “He seems to know something about running a newspaper. I guess I shall find out for myself since he’ll be my editor.”
This information seemed to satisfy Gwen, and the topic of conversation soon turned to other matters.
Neither Christina Patterson nor Grant Henley came into the newspaper office on that first Saturday of Joshua’s employment, which gave him the freedom to do more than simply get organized. Out of curiosity, he decided to look through the archived newspapers. Wouldn’t it be something if he could find references to his grandfather’s time in this town? What might he learn about the man who’d helped raise him?
Disappointment was his only reward. The oldest issue was dated July 1886—fifteen years after Richard Terrell left Idaho. A fire, the paper reported, had destroyed a number of businesses in Bethlehem Springs, including the office of the once-named Weekly Herald and the municipal building.
Well, he didn’t need old articles about his grandfather to know that he was right about the man’s character. Of more immediate concern was locating D. B. Morgan. His inquiries thus far had proven unsuccessful. Like the waitress at the South Fork Restaurant, Christina Patterson didn’t know of anyone with the last name of Morgan living in or around Bethlehem Springs.
Very frustrating. Was the writer of those ridiculous novels a recluse with a hideaway in the surrounding mountains, a man who kept to himself—so much so that no one knew of his existence? But that couldn’t be. Someone had to know him. D. B. Morgan, like everyone else, must buy food supplies on occasion. He had to use the post office to mail his manuscripts to the publisher, Shriver & Sons, in New York City. There had to be someone who could tell Joshua where to find the fellow.
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 46