Joshua shook it. “I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Do my best.”
“I’m looking for someone who is supposed to live in or near Bethlehem Springs. His name is D. B. Morgan.”
Mark Thurber rubbed his chin between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. “Hmm. Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of a Mr. Morgan anywhere hereabouts. But I’ll tell you what. If’n anybody’d know, it’s Griff Arlington. He’s lived in these mountains more’n thirty years now and knows just about everybody, young and old.”
“And where might I find Mr. Arlington?” The name sounded familiar. He was sure he’d run across it before. In the newspaper. Arlington…Arlington…Gwen Arlington. Perhaps Griff was her brother. No, not if he’d lived here for more than thirty years. More than likely her father or grandfather or maybe an uncle.
“Griff’s got a ranch about ten miles or so east of town.”
Ten miles. That wasn’t walking distance. He would have to rent a horse at the livery. He mentally counted the money that needed to last until he drew his first salary from the Herald. It wouldn’t stretch very far.
“I could draw you a map,” Thurber offered.
“Thank you. I’d greatly appreciate it.”
“’Course, it’d save you riding out there if you just tried to meet up with him day after tomorrow. There’s not much short of a blizzard that keeps him and his family from bein’ at church on Sundays.” Thurber jerked his head to the right. “He goes to the Methodist Church across the way there, if’n that’s what you choose to do. Service starts at ten in the mornin’.”
Relief washed through him. He wouldn’t need to rent a horse after all. “Thank you again, Mr. Thurber. I’ll follow your suggestion.” Joshua touched the brim of his hat. “Good day to you.”
Perhaps on Sunday he would have the answers he sought.
With her chair facing the bookshelf beneath her office window, Daphne stared at the tangerine-colored spines of The McFarland Chronicles. Had Joshua seen them? Had he been able to read the titles? Would he wonder why she hadn’t mentioned that she’d read D. B. Morgan’s work? Would he be intrepid enough to search until he discovered the truth? And worse still, what would he think of her should that happen?
Pangs of conscience tightened her chest again. But why should she feel guilty? She wasn’t the first female author to write under a male pseudonym, nor would she be the last. The main reason she used one was the same as it had been for others of her sex: because readers wouldn’t accept a western adventure novel from a Daphne McKinley the way they did from a D. B. Morgan.
She reached for one of her novels and stared at the cover. The Predicament of Dorothy Milford. Her fourth novel and one of her favorites. The illustration showed Bill McFarland protecting the fair heroine while punching out Rawhide Rick. Oh, what wonderful exploits Bill and Dorothy experienced in that book. Daphne had been totally enthralled with her characters, and the story had seemed to write itself. Perhaps she should have let the two of them get married and settle down. Only that would have put an end to the Chronicles. After all, what adventures awaited a couple after wedlock?
The question brought her up short. Was that truly how she viewed marriage?
She considered her closest friends, Gwen and Cleo. Both of them were independent, strong-minded women who had been content while single. Content, that is, until they’d met the men they would marry. Falling in love had changed everything for them. And she was certain, were she to suggest to them that their lives lacked excitement, they would heartily disagree.
With a shake of her head, she slipped the book into its place on the shelf before spinning the chair toward her desk. The new typewriter sat directly in front of her. With her index fingers, she pressed down on a few keys, one at a time, watching as they left black letters on the paper rolled into the platen.
Better she get her thoughts back into her next book than to muse about marriage, pseudonyms…or Joshua Crawford.
SEVEN
Daphne rose along with the rest of the congregation of All Saints Presbyterian and drew her first decent breath since entering the sanctuary ten minutes earlier. Joshua hadn’t come to church this morning, and she was glad of it. Being around him made her nervous, made her afraid that something she might say or do would give away her secret. Oh, how she wished he’d never come to Bethlehem Springs.
She glanced to her right where Morgan stood, holding Andy against his hip. On the other side of her brother were Gwen and the baby. Ellie slept soundly in her mother’s arms, unaware of the loud organ music or the voices raised in a song of praise.
Would it embarrass Morgan or Gwen should her secret be revealed? Perhaps not. She might even discover they would support her writing endeavors. Was she the one who was embarrassed by the stories she wrote?
She mulled the question around in her mind until she was certain of the answer. No. She wasn’t embarrassed. Perhaps at times her writing was a little overwrought, but wasn’t that what readers wanted? Was it awful to provide a few hours of escape to those who read her books?
Morgan closed the hymnal as the last strains of music lifted toward the rafters of the church, and Daphne realized she hadn’t sung a single word. Shame on her. She should be thinking about God, not about her books. Here of all places her thoughts should be on those things above.
She bowed her head as Reverend Rawlings began his opening prayer. Lord, help me to do what’s right in your eyes.
Joshua had wondered how he would discreetly find Griff Arlington among the other worshipers who attended the Bethlehem Springs Methodist Church, but he needn’t have worried. Mark Thurber, the fellow from the feed store, made certain the two men were introduced as soon as the service was over.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crawford. My son-in-law told me the two of you had met. We’re all glad you’re here and that we have a newspaper again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And this here,” Thurber continued after Joshua and Griff shook hands, “is Griff’s daughter, Cleo Statham, and her husband, Sherwood. But everybody calls him Woody.”
“How do you do?” Joshua said with a nod to Cleo and another handshake for her husband.
Thurber spoke again. “Griff, Mr. Crawford’s lookin’ for somebody name of Morgan. D. B. Morgan. He’s supposed to live around these parts. You ever heard of him?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
Anticipating that Griff might ask why he wanted to find Mr. Morgan, Joshua said, “He’s a writer of novels. I’m familiar with his books and was hoping I might speak with him about them.”
Griff glanced at his daughter—Joshua noted that Cleo looked little like her sister, Gwen McKinley—and said, “Do you know anyone by that name?”
She answered with a slow shake of her head.
Thurber patted Joshua on the shoulder. “If’n Griff’s never heard of your Mr. Morgan, then you can bet your bottom dollar that he just don’t live around here and never did. Whoever said he did’s got it wrong, for sure.”
“It would seem so.” Joshua let his gaze move to each person in the nearby semicircle. “I thank you all for your help.”
He tried to sound as if failing to discover Mr. Morgan’s whereabouts meant little to him, but inside frustration began to build. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides. He had to find the man. If he failed, there would be no righting of wrongs, there would be no apologies from Langston Lee or Gregory Halifax, no restoration of the job he’d lost.
Griff’s voice broke into Joshua’s thoughts. “If you don’t have other plans, Mr. Crawford, please join me and my family for Sunday dinner. A man shouldn’t have to eat alone on the Lord’s Day, not when he’s got Christian brothers and sisters to make him welcome at their table.”
“That’s a kind invitation,” Joshua answered.
He might as well dine with them. It would be a long, quiet afternoon in his apartment on his own. Too much empty time to think about his failure
to find D. B. Morgan. Besides, it might be interesting to see the cattle ranch and learn some of its history. Maybe he would discover something worthwhile to write about.
“Good.” Griff’s smile carved deep creases in an already craggy face. “Then come along. You can ride to the house with us in our buggy. Gwen and Morgan’s cook hates it when we’re late.”
Gwen and Morgan? But he’d thought—
“Don’t concern yourself, Mr. Crawford,” Woody Statham said in a low voice, his accent identifying his British roots. “You aren’t the first stranger Griff has invited to dinner after Sunday services. However, I married the last Arlington daughter. Perhaps you’ll take an interest in Daphne McKinley. She’ll make some lucky man a fine wife.”
Where on earth did Woody Statham get the idea Joshua was in the market for a wife?
Woody laughed and gave Joshua a pat on the back. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Crawford. I’ve become a romantic since meeting my Cleo. You will see what I mean when you get to know her.”
He was beginning to regret accepting Griff’s invitation. A quiet afternoon in his apartment above the newspaper office might have been preferable after all.
Daphne was standing in the parlor, rocking a dosing Ellie in her arms, when the front door of the McKinley home opened and Griff walked in, followed soon after by Cleo, Woody…and Joshua Crawford.
The breath caught in her throat. What was he doing there? Gwen hadn’t said anything about Joshua joining the family for Sunday dinner. Hospitality was one thing. But to invite him to eat with them twice in the span of four days? Well, it was just…just…
“Of course not.” Morgan’s voice carried into the parlor. “We’re glad you’ve joined us.”
Daphne turned, walked to the far end of the parlor, and stopped at the large window that overlooked Bethlehem Springs. As she stared down at the town, snowflakes began to fall, at first so few and so fine she wondered if she imagined them.
Cleo appeared at Daphne’s right shoulder. “I told Dad we’d get snow for sure today, and there it comes. Woody thought it would come last week, but I told him he was wrong.” She reached over to stroke the top of Ellie’s head. “I see you’ve got our little angel. Doesn’t she look pretty in her Sunday dress?”
“Mmm. Very pretty.” Daphne sent a quick glance over her shoulder, then looked out the window again. “I didn’t know Mr. Crawford was joining us today.”
Cleo laughed softly. “Neither did he. He was at our church service, and Dad invited him to come eat with us.”
Daphne couldn’t help wondering if she was the reason he’d chosen to attend the Methodist Church over All Saints Presbyterian that morning. But why? He had no reason to avoid her. It was she who had something to hide, she who had a secret, she who didn’t want to be in his company for fear he would find her out.
“Do you mind if I take Ellie?” Cleo held out her arms, anticipating Daphne’s compliance.
“Of course I mind. I always hate to give her up when she’s sleeping. Why don’t you ask to hold her when she’s fussy?” She smiled to let her friend know she was teasing.
It was no secret that Cleo longed for a baby of her own. After she’d married Woody in the summer of 1916, she’d spoken openly about wanting to begin a family right away. But as the months passed without any sign of pregnancy, she’d said less and less to others. Now she spoke of it to no one. Only she couldn’t hide her desire when around her niece and nephew. It was there in her eyes for all to see, and seeing it made Daphne’s heart ache for her friend.
Tenderly, she placed the baby in Cleo’s arms. As she took a step back, she saw Woody’s approach. She thought it best to give them some privacy, and so she left them and joined the rest of the family and their guest, who were seated near the fireplace.
Joshua stood. “Good day, Miss McKinley.”
“Mr. Crawford.”
“Have you mastered the typewriter since I saw you last?” There was a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth and a sparkle of jest in his eyes.
She felt herself relax a little at his teasing. “I believe it will take me more than two days to master it, but I’m learning.”
He motioned to the overstuffed chair where he’d been seated. “Please, take mine.”
“That’s not necessary. I—”
“Please.” He smiled—a smile that was almost as remarkable as the blue of his eyes.
Confusion replaced her unsteady nerves as she sank onto the chair, suddenly helpless to do anything other than comply.
Joshua walked across the room to retrieve one of the straight-backed chairs set against the wall near the entrance. As he carried it toward his host and the others, his gaze returned to Daphne and his mind replayed Woody’s earlier comment: “Perhaps you’ll take an interest in Daphne McKinley. She’ll make some lucky man a fine wife.”
There was no disputing that Miss McKinley was a beautiful girl. No, not a girl. She was, without question, a woman. And when he looked at her, it was easy for his mind to stray to places he didn’t want it to go. Like what that abundant mass of curly black hair would look like tumbling free down her back or spilling over a white pillowcase. Like how soft her mouth would feel against his if he kissed her.
He gave his thoughts a mental shake. The world would come to an end before he saw Daphne’s hair unbound. As for kissing her? More likely he would become the editor of the New York Times or the head of a leading publishing house before the end of the year.
Wealth and privilege set Daphne McKinley apart from ordinary folks, and Joshua was unquestionably ordinary. He came from common stock. His father had been a man of trade. One of his great-grandfathers had been a farmer. And Richard Terrell, despite growing long in years, had worked to provide for his widowed daughter and only grandson. Daphne lived alone and had no need of employment, no concerns about how she would put food on the table. She’d traveled all around the globe, according to newspaper reports, while Bethlehem Springs was the farthest Joshua had been from St. Louis in his entire life.
No, he might be welcome as a guest in her brother’s home, but there was a vast chasm that separated Joshua from Daphne. To think otherwise was to be a fool. And besides, he was all but engaged to someone else. All the more reason for him to bring such thoughts about Daphne McKinley to an end. Once and for all.
Sunday, 27 October, 1918
Dear Mary Theresa,
I write this letter, hoping that you have found it in your heart to forgive me for the things I said in the heat of the moment. I regret losing my temper with Mr. Halifax and that he and I came to blows. I regret that my fight with him caused me to lose my position. But above all, I regret that I took out my anger and frustration upon you. You didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of my ill humor. Please forgive me, Mary Theresa.
I arrived at my destination on the seventeenth of this month, only to learn that Mr. Patterson, the man who offered me employment as a reporter at the Daily Herald, had passed away. Fortunately, before his passing, he instructed his wife to offer me the position as managing editor of the paper. Since my funds were nearly depleted, I didn’t hesitate to accept, knowing full well that I will need to find my replacement before I can return to St. Louis. I was provided with living quarters above the newspaper office as part of my compensation, a circumstance for which I am grateful. It would have cost more if I had to hire a room in the boarding house for the duration of my stay.
I have been made to feel welcome by many. All are glad that their newspaper is available once again. Twice I’ve been invited to dine at the home of the town’s most influential (in my opinion) citizen, one Morgan McKinley. I have come to admire him as I’ve learned the reason he came to Idaho. Perhaps because he reminds me of Grandfather. Although his wealth far exceeds anything Grandfather had, his generous spirit seems to be quite genuine.
Unfortunately, I have been less than successful in my search to find D. B. Morgan. No one in Bethlehem Springs seems to know or have heard of the man. I wro
te to my source at Shriver & Sons, hoping to obtain more information that will assist me in finding Mr. Morgan.
Bethlehem Springs is a sleepy little town, set right in the middle of tree-covered mountains. The terrain is very different from where you and I grew up. It’s more arid. Certainly there is nothing like the mighty Mississippi River flowing nearby. The elevation of the town is better than five thousand feet, almost three times the highest point in all of Missouri but under half that of the highest point in Idaho. The population of Bethlehem Springs is miniscule compared to St. Louis. I miss the hurry and bustle of our thriving city.
Tonight, with snow falling outside my apartment’s windows as it has done much of the day, I feel isolated from the rest of the world. However, I’ve begun to adjust to the tempo of the town, and my stay will be worth it once I find and confront Mr. Morgan.
Your grandfather has been much on my mind. How is he? I know you were afraid his last illness might be the influenza. Fear over the dreaded disease is everywhere these days. The conductor on the train told me that fewer people are traveling, and whenever he hears a passenger cough or sees one who looks ill, he wonders if he will soon join the thousands who have died from the Spanish flu. I admit, I’ve had similar thoughts. I learned from my employer, Mrs. Patterson, that there have been no outbreaks of the influenza in Bethlehem Springs. They are grateful, and so am I.
When you see my mother and her husband, please tell them I am well. I intend to write to Mother next, but she will be reassured if you convey the same message to her.
I remain affectionately,
Joshua
July 1, 1872
It’s a shame that I’m not more disciplined in writing down the record of my life, but for the present, my past doesn’t seem as important as my future. Our future.
I’m pleased to say that my new business ventures in St. Louis are thriving. Doing far better than I had reason to expect. But my involvement with them does keep me very busy during the day. When I return home in the evening, I much prefer spending the time with Annie than writing about days gone by.
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