My beloved wife has grown large with the child she carries. She frets about being fat, but I tell her daily how beautiful she is. It’s not a lie. She is beautiful, and the life inside of her is a miracle for which I will always be thankful to God. Annie is convinced the child will be a boy, but I secretly hope for a girl. One who will look exactly like her mother.
Looking back to those years I was in California and owned the Golden Nugget, I see nothing to recommend myself. I was dishonest and disreputable to the core. I put on airs of respectability, but it was an act. I considered the welfare of no one other than myself. If something would benefit me, I went after it. What I couldn’t buy, I took by force. I wasn’t above threats or blackmail. It’s a wonder I never killed anyone to advance my fortunes.
At least I don’t have murder on my conscience. Another circumstance for which I am grateful to God.
But death is not always the worst thing that can happen to a man. I destroyed many in other lasting ways. I took their money. I ruined their businesses. Sometimes I dallied with their wives just for the novelty of it.
I have no defense, no way to justify the man I was then. Sin ruled me to the core. Even now, so many years later, I have to battle against my old ways of doing things. I have to keep myself in check when making business decisions. Old habits die hard, and I find I must plead for God to break those patterns, those temptations. I beg Him to control every area of my life. Without Him, I am most surely lost.
I take comfort in the words that Paul wrote in Romans 7:
For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not. For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do. Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me. I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me. For I delight in the law of God after the inward man: But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.
Indeed. Thank God. Jesus Christ is the One who shall deliver me from the body of this death. Amen.
EIGHT
Daphne found her column on page 2 of the Monday edition of the paper, upper right-hand side. And there was her byline—Daphne McKinley—beneath the heading A Woman’s Words. A thrill of excitement shivered up her spine. Although she didn’t care much for the title Joshua Crawford had given her column—it seemed rather dull and ordinary to her—at least others would know she was the author of the piece that followed. No cloud of secrecy. No worry about being discovered. For better or worse, there was her name for all to see.
Her eyes scanned the column, which was about woman’s suffrage in America and in Idaho and how Bethlehem Springs should be proud that they’d elected a woman as their mayor three years earlier. As far as she could tell without comparing it word for word to her copy, Joshua had made only a few changes. She hoped that meant he was pleased with her effort. He hadn’t told her so, and until this moment she hadn’t known how much she desired his approval. He was, after all, a professional editor. He must love words as much as she did.
She folded back the paper so her column was on the top page, then folded the paper in half and placed it on the kitchen table. What should she write for next Monday’s column? Her debut piece had come to her in a flash. Writing about Gwen’s accomplishments as mayor hadn’t been difficult. But what next? A woman’s view of the war in Europe. The need for quarantine efforts in order to stop the spread of influenza around the globe. Or perhaps a piece about something closer to home, such as the effect of prohibition in Idaho.
Instinct told her Joshua wanted her columns to be more personal, less news and more opinion. Something softer, perhaps.
She released a sigh. Despite her many frustrations with her current novel—Was she ready to end the life of Rawhide Rick? Should Bill McFarland be allowed to fall in love and marry? Was it time to bring The McFarland Chronicles to an end?—she had to admit she found it easier to write fiction than opinion pieces. Could she come up with enough engrossing topics on a weekly basis?
Oh, my. Writing for the newspaper had seemed an excellent idea when it first came to her. Would it turn into a disaster instead?
She left the kitchen and went to her office. The typewriter awaited her, a clean sheet of paper rolled into the platen. With practice each day, she was getting the hang of typing. She did wonder why the keys weren’t lined up alphabetically. Wouldn’t that have made more sense?
She sank onto her desk chair, shoving her loose flowing hair behind her shoulders. She would practice a little while before changing out of her dressing gown. Perhaps she might even manage to write a page or two about Bill McFarland’s latest adventure, just to prove it was, indeed, easier than coming up with an idea for her second column.
Dry Creek was a town as uninviting as its name. The buildings lining Main Street were weather beaten and sun-bleached, and any small breeze sent dust devils whirling every which way.
It was said only the most desperate characters lived in Dry Creek, a wide patch in the road halfway between Boise City and the gold towns of the Boise Basin. Even government officials gave the town a wide berth, believing it was better to let the ruffians kill each other than to risk their own lives enforcing the law.
But Bill McFarland wasn’t the kind of man who backed away from danger. He wasn’t about to start backing down on this day…
A knock on Daphne’s front door drew her out of her fictional world. Who on earth would come calling so early in the morning? Except it wasn’t early. When she looked at the clock on her desk, she discovered it was almost noon. And there she sat in her dressing gown, the floor of her office littered with crumpled pages.
The knock sounded again. It seemed her visitor wasn’t going away. Probably Edna Updike wanting to borrow a cup of flour or sugar. Or perhaps her neighbor wanted to give Daphne a scolding because of her column in the newspaper. Daphne remembered how disapproving Mrs. Updike had been when Gwen ran for public office. What a fussbudget!
“Oh, my.” She released a sigh. “And I was doing so well.”
She rose from the chair, once again shoving her hair over her shoulder. Whatever it was Mrs. Updike wanted, Daphne would not let her come inside. She would make certain her neighbor’s visit was brief. Then she would change into a day dress and return to writing while her muse was cooperating.
She pasted on a smile as she opened the door. It vanished in an instant. Her caller wasn’t Edna Updike. Joshua Crawford stood on her front porch, his hand raised to rap once more upon her door.
“Mr. Crawford.” Her fingers fluttered to the neck of her dressing gown. She was perfectly covered, of course. As modestly and adequately as any of her day dresses. Still…
“Miss McKinley.” He bent the brim of his hat in greeting. “Might I speak with you for a moment?”
Looking at Daphne, her thick mass of curly black hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back—appearing much as he’d imagined it would—Joshua almost forgot what had brought him to her door.
“I…I’m not prepared for company.” Color rose in her cheeks as she fingered the collar of her pale yellow dressing gown.
He hunched his shoulders inside his coat. “I won’t take up much of your time.”
“Well…” She reached out and pushed on the screen door. “Come inside. We’re letting the heat out.”
“Thanks.” As he moved by her, he caught the faint scent of her cologne. It was different from the last time he’d noticed her fragrance. Honeysuckle, if he wasn’t mistaken, and he wasn’t. It was his mother’s favorite.
The door closed behind him.
“I would offer you a cup of coffee, Mr. Crawford, but I’m a
fraid it will be bitter. It’s been on the stove for several hours. Still I—”
He removed his hat as he turned to face her again. “That’s kind, but I promised I wouldn’t keep you.”
Yesterday he’d wondered what it would be like to kiss Daphne. Later, he’d written to Mary Theresa, partly because of the need to remind himself that he shouldn’t think about kissing another woman. But how could he help it, seeing her as she was now?
He swallowed. “Miss McKinley, I’m here—” His voice cracked, like a nervous schoolboy. He cleared his throat. “I’m here about D. B. Morgan.”
She moved away from him, walking from the small living room into the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?”
“I’m sure.” He shouldn’t have come. It was a crazy notion that had brought him here today. And yet, he had to try. If there was any possibility she could help him…“Miss McKinley, I couldn’t help noticing your collection of novels when I was here the other day.”
She arched an eyebrow and tipped her head slightly to one side. The look in her eyes bade him continue.
“The McFarland Chronicles, in particular.”
The blush that had colored her cheeks moments before drained away. “What about them?”
So he was right. The books he’d seen were not only dime novels, but they were those particular dime novels, the ones that had caused him so much anger and grief. “You must know they were written by D. B. Morgan.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t say anything when you heard me ask others about the author.” He walked forward, stopping when he reached the table.
“No, I didn’t say anything.”
“Why not? You knew I wanted to find him.”
She drew a deep breath and released it, her chest rising and falling with it. “I said nothing because there is nothing I can tell you.”
“Perhaps you don’t want others to know you read those kind of books. There isn’t much to admire about them, that’s for certain.”
If she’d looked pale and uncertain moments before, now she looked perturbed. “I’m afraid I disagree, Mr. Crawford. I find a great deal to enjoy about The McFarland Chronicles. They’re entertaining and filled with history of the Old West.”
“They are ridiculous and filled with inaccuracies.”
“Mr. Crawford, you may be a fine newspaper editor, but you obviously know little about fiction or the people who love to read it.”
His own temper was on the rise. “I know Mr. Morgan has no regard for facts, no respect for the truth. He’s ruined the good name of a good man in his novels.”
“What good man?”
“My grandfather!”
Silence enveloped the kitchen.
Breathing hard, Joshua turned away. Why take out his frustration on Miss McKinley? She had a right to read what she wanted, and it wasn’t her fault what the author had written. Practice patience, he reminded himself. Be like Grandfather. But his annoyance remained. Daphne was the closest thing he had to a lead, and he was certain she knew more than she was saying.
“I don’t understand what your grandfather has to do with The McFarland Chronicles.”
Joshua faced her again. “My grandfather’s name was Richard Terrell, and when he was a young man living out West, he was sometimes called Rawhide Rick. He lived in Bethlehem Springs before moving to St. Louis, where he married and raised his daughter. My mother.”
“Oh, dear,” she whispered, her hand covering her mouth.
“I didn’t learn about the nickname until after his death, so I don’t know how he came to be called by it. But I do know my grandfather was not the scurrilous villain portrayed in Mr. Morgan’s novels.”
“They are novels, Mr. Crawford. Just fiction.”
“Should that make the insult less?”
“Perhaps the use of his name is a coincidence?”
Joshua shook his head. “If it was only my grandfather’s real name or the nickname, perhaps. But both? No, it’s no coincidence. I don’t know why the writer wants to twist the truth about my grandfather in his novels, but I’m certain it’s intentional.”
“Is that the reason you want to meet D. B. Morgan?”
“Yes.”
She was silent for a long while before saying, “You must have loved your grandfather a great deal.” Her expression seemed kind, sympathetic, compassionate.
“There was a great deal about him to love. He was a good man, respected by everyone who knew him.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Fourteen years.”
Again she was silent for a long moment before speaking, softly this time. “How can the words in a novel hurt him after so many years?”
His mother had asked him the same question when he’d announced his plans to find and confront D. B. Morgan. “They can’t hurt him,” he answered now, just as he had then. “But I don’t want anyone believing that disreputable character was anything like the real Richard Terrell. I can’t let the lies stand unchallenged. I owe my grandfather too much not to fight for his good name.”
Daphne continued to look at him but didn’t say anything more. Perhaps there was nothing more she could say. Perhaps she really didn’t know anything about the author.
Joshua slid his fingers around his hat brim. One circle. Two circles. Finally, he set the hat on his head. He was wasting his time. “Thank you, Miss McKinley I won’t trouble you any longer.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door, where he let himself out.
As the door closed behind Joshua, Daphne sat on the nearest chair and drew a deep breath into her lungs. What a terrible predicament. She had included Rawhide Rick in her books for historical accuracy. In hindsight, perhaps that hadn’t been the best choice. But she hadn’t written anything about him that wasn’t true—or at least that she hadn’t believed was true.
Oh, dear. What if Griff’s stories of early Idaho and Bethlehem Springs weren’t true at all?
She covered her face with her hands.
Joshua Crawford had come all this way because he felt his grandfather’s good name had been besmirched in the novels of D. B. Morgan. Her novels. She hadn’t actually lied when she said there was nothing she could tell him. She wasn’t ready to reveal that she was D. B. Morgan. Her work had been a secret from the start. How could she tell him and not tell everyone else? Or at least tell her family and closest friends.
“Father in heaven, whatever am I to do now?”
Joshua’s frustration continued to build throughout the afternoon, and by the time he flipped the sign in the office window to Closed, frustration had turned to a simmering anger. Had he come to Idaho for nothing?
“How can the words in a novel hurt him after so long a time?”
It seemed he was the only person who understood the importance of setting the record straight. He’d loved his grandfather. He’d grown to admire him even more as he’d grown into adulthood. Joshua needed to honor his memory. If even one reader believed that the character in those books was a true representation of Richard Terrell, that was one too many.
He pictured a smirk on Gregory Halifax’s face. One that plainly said Joshua was a complete failure. At the thought, his anger boiled over, and he slammed his fist into the door jamb. Pain shot up his arm and into his shoulder. He released a mild oath.
“You all right, Mr. Crawford?”
Joshua drew in a quick breath. He’d forgotten Grant Henley was still in the back room. “I’m fine,” he called, though he wasn’t. He’d taken the skin off his knuckles, and his head had begun to pound. Not to mention the disgust he felt over losing his temper once again.
Would he never learn?
Grant appeared in the doorway. “Calling it a night?”
“Yes. And you should too.”
“I won’t be far behind you. Got to finish a few repairs to the old girl.” Old girl. That’s what Grant called the press.
Joshua nodded as he slipped his arms into his coat. “All right,
then. I’ll see you in the morning.”
A few moments later, he stopped at the base of the stairs that led to his apartment. He was hungry, but he didn’t feel like cooking for himself. The quiet of the apartment would allow him too much time to consider the different ways he’d failed, and he might find himself punching another door jamb because of it.
He turned away from the stairs and walked to the South Fork. Inside the restaurant, he was hailed by several other diners.
“Enjoyed your editorial today, Mr. Crawford.”
“Heard you went to the Methodist Church yesterday. Hope you’ll be back to All Saints next Sunday.”
“Mr. Crawford, you’re doing a fine job. Mrs. Patterson’s lucky to have you.”
Funny, wasn’t it? Less than two weeks ago, he’d come into this restaurant a stranger. Now he was treated as if he were one of them. To his surprise, he felt the same. He was even able to respond to each one of them by name. Neighbor to neighbor.
Not that he truly belonged in Bethlehem Springs. His would be a short stay.
NINE
On Thursday, with the snow gone from the roads, Daphne joined her brother, sister-in-law, and their children for the family’s weekly visit to the Arlington ranch. By the time they arrived, everyone’s cheeks and noses were rosy from the cold and no one felt like dawdling outdoors.
“We liked your column in Monday’s paper,” Cleo said after giving Daphne a warm embrace. “I reckon most everybody’d have to agree with you too. Gwennie was the best mayor Bethlehem Springs ever had and ever will have.”
Gwen lowered Ellie into Griff’s arms before glancing over her shoulder. “I’m certain Edna Updike doesn’t agree.” Her gaze met with Daphne’s. “Has she said anything to you about what you wrote?”
“Not yet.”
“Sure as shootin’, she will.” Cleo chuckled. “Mrs. Updike’s never been one to hesitate expressing her opinion to anybody who’ll listen.”
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 51