You don’t plan to stay in Bethlehem Springs. Remember why you’re here.
Find D. B. Morgan. Get him to agree to set the record straight about Richard Terrell. Help Mrs. Patterson find a new managing editor for the Herald. Return to St. Louis. Get an apology from Gregory Halifax and his job back from Langston Lee. Get on with his life. That was his plan.
But in his mind, he saw Daphne’s smile, heard her laughter. She intrigued him, this woman of quality and privilege. At the dinner table tonight, he’d learned she was both witty and well read. He suspected she could hold her own in any conversation.
What would it hurt if some of those conversations were with him?
January 1, 1872
California! Gold!
The word was that you could walk around and pluck heavy gold nuggets off the ground. It wasn’t far from the truth. There was lots of gold and it was easy to get to, not buried hundreds of feet below the ground’s surface. Still, I was quick to learn that there were better ways to make my fortune than working a claim.
Men rushed to California from all over the world, eager to get rich quick, and there was more than women in short supply in that brave new land. Food was scarce, as were picks, tents, clothing, and just about anything else a man needed to work his claim.
I was twenty-eight and determined I wouldn’t fail. I didn’t care what I had to do to come out on top either. I had begun to hone the kind of character traits that would serve me well in getting what I wanted. I learned I could cheat at cards without getting caught, and I could tell a convincing lie with a straight face. Something else I discovered: I was a shrewd businessman.
What did the men in the hills of California want almost as much as gold? Women and liquor. I provided them with both.
In 1852, through a less than honest series of events, I became the owner of a dance hall called the Golden Nugget. The liquor wasn’t the best, but it would get a man drunk quick enough. A customer had to pay premium prices for every swallow—to me.
I got rich. Not plucking nuggets of gold off the ground but by taking them from the men who worked their claims and came to town for supplies. I got richer still selling desperate young women for an hour to those same lonely, equally desperate men. The girls were young and pretty and smelled good. I told myself that what they did in those upstairs rooms wasn’t my fault. It was their choice to go to work for me. I was just their employer. I convinced myself that I was protecting them from the hard, cruel world beyond the doors of the Golden Nugget. I even believed the lies I told myself for many years.
I would find them today if I could, those dance hall girls, and tell them I’m sorry. But the Golden Nugget burned to the ground soon after I left California, and those who once worked for me were scattered with the ashes.
March 30, 1872
Annie has given me wonderful news. She is with child. The baby is expected in September. It would be hard for me to adequately express the joy I feel. I am fifty-one years old, and although I secretly hoped when Annie and I wed that we might have children together, I knew that it might not happen.
God’s grace is an amazing thing. That I, such a great sinner who deserves nothing good from the hand of the Lord, should be so blessed is beyond comprehension.
SIX
Daphne couldn’t avoid seeing Joshua Crawford for long. Not if she wanted to write a regular column for the newspaper—and she did. Therefore, on Friday afternoon she pushed open the door to the Triweekly Herald, her heart beating faster than normal.
Relief swept through her when she saw Christina at the front desk. With any luck, Daphne wouldn’t have to face Joshua today. Although she’d never felt guilty about her alter-ego before, since Wednesday evening she’d begun to wonder if using a pseudonym was more than a matter of privacy for herself and her family, more than an easy avenue to publication in a male dominated field. Was it also dishonest?
“Good afternoon, Miss McKinley,” Christina greeted her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Patterson. I’ve brought my first column. I hope you’ll be pleased.” As she spoke, Daphne placed the carefully written pages on the raised counter.
Christina stood, her complexion looking pale against her stark black dress, and came around the desk. “I’ll make sure Mr. Crawford sees it as soon as he returns. I believe he plans to run your columns in the Monday edition of the paper.”
“It must be a relief to you, having Mr. Crawford here to manage the Herald. How fortuitous that Mr. Patterson already offered him a position before—” She regretted the words before they were out of her mouth. “—Before he fell ill.”
The ever-present sadness in Christina’s eyes deepened, and sorrow tugged at the corners of her mouth. Daphne wished she could offer words that would bring comfort to the young widow. But what help were words at such a time? All that came to mind were platitudes, and Daphne knew from personal experience how unwelcome trite phrases were when one was in mourning. She reached out and briefly touched the back of Christina’s right hand. With her eyes she tried to convey her sympathy and understanding.
Christina nodded, as if hearing what had gone unspoken.
Softly, Daphne said, “Please have Mr. Crawford call me if the piece isn’t to his liking.”
“I will.”
Without another word, Daphne turned and left the newspaper office.
It was a crisp, cool day, the golden sun overhead failing to provide much warmth. But at least the wind had died down, and the threat of snow had yet to be fulfilled. It would happen soon enough.
On her way home, Daphne stopped at the mercantile. She needed flour and salt, and hopefully the shipment of apples Bert Humphrey was expecting would have arrived by now. Although she wasn’t much of a cook, she was in the mood to bake an apple cobbler.
“Miss McKinley!” Bert said when he saw her. “That Royal Typewriter you ordered arrived today.”
The apples, flour, and salt were forgotten in an instant. “So soon? I thought it would take several weeks.”
“Surprised me too. Came in on this morning’s train. I was gonna send Owen Goldsmith down with it as soon as he gets out of school.” Bert leaned his beefy forearms on the counter. “Mind tellin’ me what you’re gonna use it for? Makes sense to have those machines over at the municipal building, I guess, and for lawyers and such, but I’ve never known anybody to buy one just to have around the house.”
“I’m writing a weekly column for the newspaper, Mr. Humphrey. I thought it would be good for me to learn to use a typing machine.”
The grocer shook his head as he straightened and took a step back. “Waste of money, far as I can see.”
“Not at all, sir,” came a male voice from behind Daphne.
Her heart skipped a beat as she turned to look at Joshua Crawford—who stood much too close for her comfort. Would he be able to look her in the eyes and guess that she was D. B. Morgan?
“Every writer will one day use typing machines,” Joshua continued with a smile and a nod in her direction. Then he looked at Bert. “Did you know, Mr. Humphrey, that Mark Twain wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on a typewriter?”
“Do tell.”
“Yes. It’s a fact.”
“Miss McKinley’s not writin’ a book.”
Daphne felt color rise in her cheeks. Of all things for Bert Humphrey to say. He couldn’t be more wrong. Hoping to hide the sheepish blush from Joshua, she turned to face the grocer again. “I’ll await the typewriter’s delivery at home. Thank you for seeing to it.”
“No need to wait for it to be delivered, Miss McKinley,” Joshua said. “Please allow me to carry it for you.”
Her cheeks burned even hotter. She looked down at her hands, her fingers tapping restlessly on the counter. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“I assure you, it won’t put me out in the least. After all, you were kind enough to drive me to your brother’s house the other night. This would only be returning the favor.”
What could she do but
accept? To keep refusing would only bring more attention that she didn’t want, both from Joshua and from Bert. She took a deep breath, composed her expression, and turned around. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Crawford. If you’re sure it won’t be an imposition.”
Joshua smiled. “Quite sure.”
“The crate’s in the back,” Bert said. “I’ll bring it right out.”
With the grocer gone, silence settled over the storeroom. Joshua didn’t mind the silence. Nor did he mind being alone with Daphne. It gave him a few moments to study her. That she was nervous was unmistakable. What he didn’t know was why. Where were her usual self-confidence and that regal carriage? Did he make her nervous?
The idea that he might be the cause of her display of nerves brought him unexpected satisfaction. Because if he were the cause of those nerves, there was only one reasonable explanation—she was attracted to him. What a perfectly fine state of affairs. Hadn’t he hoped to learn more about her, to spend more time in her company? How much easier that would be if she hoped for the same.
“Here you go.” Bert reappeared from the storeroom carrying a good-sized crate in his arms. He set it on the counter, then patted the top of it with his left hand as he looked at Joshua. “Hope you appreciate her getting a machine like that for writing her columns.”
“I assure you, I do appreciate it. I’ve used a Royal Typewriter for some time and highly recommend it.” He lifted the crate off the counter. “Shall we go, Miss McKinley?”
“Yes,” she answered as she moved toward the door. “Good day, Mr. Humphrey. Thank you again.”
Joshua followed, watching her departure over the top of the crate. The now familiar posture was there—head high, shoulders squared, pint sized but regal. And he saw something he hadn’t noticed in their previous encounters—a rather mesmerizing feminine sway of her hips. What a pleasant observation.
Daphne opened the door and stepped out of his way so he could exit first. Since he couldn’t see around the crate, he felt for the step down to the sidewalk with his foot. Her attraction to him—if that’s what it was—wouldn’t last long if he fell flat on his face in front of her and damaged her new typewriter in the bargain.
“Which way?” he asked.
“We’ll turn right on Wallula. My house is almost at the end of the street.”
Facing west, he waited on the sidewalk until she appeared at his side, then they walked together, Joshua shortening his stride to accommodate hers.
After a brief silence, he said, “I trust you’re feeling better.”
“Feeling better? Oh, the other night. Yes, I am. It was nothing, really. But thank you for asking.”
Joshua wished he weren’t carrying the awkward container. He would have liked to see her from a better angle than the one afforded him now.
“By the way, I’ve written my first column. I left it with Mrs. Patterson a short while ago.” She glanced over at him, the color in her cheeks high once again. “I hope you’ll approve of it, Mr. Crawford.”
He found himself disappointed. It would seem Daphne’s case of nerves had everything to do with pleasing her new editor and nothing to do with the man himself. But wasn’t that just as well? A romantic entanglement wouldn’t be desirable for either of them. His stay in Bethlehem Springs was temporary and—God willing—would be of brief duration.
“Did you know my sister-in-law used to write for the Daily Herald?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I read a few of her columns last week while I was acquainting myself with the paper. Although I didn’t know at the time that Guinevere Arlington was the present Mrs. Morgan McKinley.”
“Here,” she said, pointing the way. “We need to cross the street. That’s my home over there.”
The house was a single-story bungalow made of red brick, surrounded by trees, shrubs and flower bushes. There was a broad front porch with a swing and several wooden chairs off to the right side. It didn’t look at all like the home of an heiress. He’d expected something more along the line of her brother’s house. It made him wonder again why Daphne had chosen to settle in a small town in the mountains of Idaho when she could have lived anywhere in the world. Was it because, as she’d stated, she’d fallen in love with the town and its people? Or was there another reason?
“Careful of the steps.” She moved ahead to open the front door for him. “You can set down the crate anywhere. Right there on the floor will be fine.”
“Why don’t I take it into the room where you intend to use it?”
“Oh, but I—”
“I’ve carried it this far. A few more steps won’t matter.”
“Very well.”
She led the way to one of the bedrooms. Only it wasn’t a bedroom. It was an office with several bookcases, the shelves lined with books. Dozens upon dozens of books. Thin ones, thick ones, and everything in between. A writing desk stood in the center of the room, a neat stack of paper on the left side, a collection of pens and pencils on the right side. It seemed she was more than a little serious about writing, and he doubted the column that awaited him back at the office was her first attempt.
He stopped, leaned down, and set the crate on the floor while Daphne moved to stand with her back to the window, her hands resting on top of the bookcase that sat beneath the sill.
“Would you like me to open the crate for you?” he asked as he straightened.
“Heavens, no. I’ve imposed upon you enough already.”
“Not at all.” He stepped over to one of the taller bookcases, and his gaze scanned the titles at eye level. It was an eclectic collection—biographies, histories, scientific studies, poetry, novels, short story collections. Old books. New books. Authors like Mark Twain, Edith Wharton, Willa Cather, Jack London, Jane Austen, Gertrude Stein, O. Henry, and Robert Frost. “Have you read many of these?”
“Most. I’ll read them all eventually. I like to learn.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Your interests are rather varied.”
“For a woman?”
“I didn’t say that.”
She gave him a tight smile. “Maybe not, but you thought it.”
He wanted to deny the accusation.
“You’d be surprised by the things that interest me, Mr. Crawford.”
“Perhaps you’ll share some of them with me while I’m in Bethlehem Springs.”
Her dark eyebrows arched. “You make it sound as if that won’t be for long.”
“One can’t predict the future, Miss McKinley.”
“No, one can’t.”
She was more than just another pretty face, more than a woman of wealth and privilege. There was intelligence behind those chocolate-colored eyes of hers, and he realized that he really would like to learn about her interests.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to open that for you?” He glanced down at the crate as he spoke.
“Quite sure.” She stepped toward him. “Thank you for carrying it home for me. I’m obliged to you.”
As he lifted his gaze, he caught sight of a number of slight volumes on the lower shelf of the bookcase behind her. Unmistakably dime novels. It surprised him that she would have such poor reading material among the rest of her fine collection.
She shifted her position, and the books were once again hidden from view by her skirt.
Was it intentional, he wondered, as he met her gaze. Was she trying to hide those books from him? Perhaps she was embarrassed for him to know she read such disgraceful literature. As well she should be.
“I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Crawford. Don’t let me keep you any longer.”
No matter the reason for her earlier case of nerves—whether an attraction she felt toward him or because she wanted to impress her editor—she had apparently overcome it. He was being shown the door. Without question. He made his way to the front entrance. She followed right behind.
As he opened the door, he bid her good day. “Do let me know how you fare in learning to use your new typewrit
er.” He pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the front porch. Then he turned to look at her again.
“Of course.” She smiled, but it was a fleeting, uncertain one. “And I look forward to learning your opinion of my first column. I do want to make a good impression on the newspaper’s readers.” After a quick nod, she all but closed the door in his face.
Joshua stood there, still holding the screen door open with his left hand while mulling over what had transpired, from the moment he’d run into Daphne in the mercantile until now. He wasn’t easily confused, but this particular woman baffled him. Did she like him or not? Did he like her or just find her curious?
With a shake of his head, he let the screen door fall closed, then turned and went down the porch steps. Better to drive thoughts of Miss McKinley from his mind. Better he concentrate on the matter that had brought him to Bethlehem Springs.
Strange that he had to keep reminding himself of that.
When he reached the corner of Wallula and Lincoln—and with that reminder upmost in his thoughts—he decided not to return to the newspaper immediately. Instead, he headed for Thurber’s Feed Store at the end of the block.
An earthy scent filled his nostrils when he entered the store a short while later. Unlike the general store that was crowded with items of all kinds, narrow aisles between fully stocked shelves, the feed store had a wide open feel to it. Bags of grain were stacked against the far wall. Another wall displayed harnesses and other tack for horses, including a couple of saddles.
“Howdy.” The man behind the counter wiped his hands on the green apron he wore over his shirt and trousers. “Can I help you find somethin’?”
Joshua introduced himself.
“You’re the newspaper fellow,” the man said before Joshua could add that detail. “Right nice to meet you. I’m Mark Thurber.” Thurber was tall and beanpole thin with orange-red hair on his head and a red-and-gray close-cropped beard. He moved from behind the counter, holding out his hand.
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 49