The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection

by Robin Lee Hatcher

He knows already. He’s learned the truth before I could tell him.

  There was no point in dragging it out another moment. “Yes, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Yes?” His frown deepened.

  “I’m D. B. Morgan.” She drew in a breath and released it. “I’m the author of The McFarland Chronicles.”

  He muttered something under his breath.

  Daphne moved toward the table, stopping opposite him. “I’m sorry for the injury you feel my books have done to you.”

  “Not to me. To my grandfather.”

  “I have something for you.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew the slip of paper Griff had given to her, holding it out to Joshua.

  He took it, read it, then looked at her again. “Are these names supposed to mean something to me?”

  “Frank and Lawrence Coughlin knew your grandfather when he lived in Bethlehem Springs. I understand they worked for him. They’re the ones who told Griff about Richard Terrell.”

  “And then Mr. Arlington told you?”

  She nodded. “But he didn’t know what I did with the information. He thought he was just telling me stories about the early days of Bethlehem Springs and Idaho. That’s how it started. I was so curious about everything and was always asking him questions. He’s a fount of knowledge about the early settling of the West. But he never knew I would put those stories into my books because he didn’t know about my writing. No one knew I’d written any novels until today when I told Morgan.” She pointed at the slip of paper in his hand. “The Coughlins can verify what I…what I wrote in my books about Richard Terrell.”

  Joshua wished Daphne hadn’t admitted her guilt before he could make his accusations. Now the anger inside him had no place to go, no way to be spent, and it left him aggravated beyond description. To make matters worse, she seemed certain that these two men—“Frank and Lawrence Coughlin, Stone Creek, Idaho,” the slip of paper said—would verify the stories she’d written about his grandfather. If so, they were liars.

  “Where is Stone Creek?” he asked through a clenched jaw.

  “Griff told me it’s about fifty miles southeast of here.”

  He folded the paper in two before sliding it into his coat pocket. He wanted more than an apology from the author. He needed evidence to take back with him so he could shove the truth down Gregory Halifax’s throat. Only then would he have a chance of being reemployed by the newspaper.

  And if Daphne wouldn’t provide what he needed, maybe he would sue her for libel. She was worth a fortune. Why not reap a reward? It was her fault he’d lost his temper with Halifax, her fault—in an indirect way—that he’d lost his job. He would surely win in a court of law, and she wouldn’t miss the money.

  On the heels of that thought came convicting words of Scripture. Better he be wronged, First Corinthians told him, better he be defrauded, than that he take a fellow believer to court. Which only served to make his anger increase. Was he to have no justice, no satisfaction, no righting of the wrong?

  The kettle began to whistle, and Daphne turned toward the stove. Joshua watched for a moment as she poured water into the teapot, then he walked to the door, letting himself out without a word of farewell. Anger quickened his stride and carried him quickly along the sidewalk toward the newspaper office.

  “Mr. Crawford! Mr. Crawford, wait!”

  He stopped and turned, surprised that she’d followed him. She hadn’t even taken the time to put on a coat before leaving her house.

  “Mr. Crawford.” She stopped a few feet away. “Please believe me when I tell you I meant no one any harm. I wrote only what I believed to be true about Richard Terrell. He’s part of the history of Idaho.”

  “But what you wrote isn’t history. That man in your books isn’t my grandfather. Your stories are based on fables or gossip. Nothing more. And your books haven’t just caused my grandfather’s name to be maligned. They cost me my job back in St. Louis.”

  “I don’t understand.” Daphne hugged herself. “How could my novels do that?”

  He felt a tug of guilt for stretching the truth. If he’d kept his temper in check, if he hadn’t punched Halifax, he would still have his job. But he wasn’t ready to let her off the hook for any part of this. Not yet. “Words have power, Miss McKinley. Even words in a novel. You may think your stories are simply for entertainment, but they still have the power to build up or tear down.”

  “What if everything I wrote about Richard Terrell turns out to be true?”

  “It won’t.”

  She took two steps closer to him. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink from the cold. “But if it does?”

  “I suppose I’d have some apologies of my own to make.” He imagined Gregory Halifax’s smirk and his blood began to boil again. “But I won’t have to apologize because none of it’s true. I knew my grandfather. You didn’t. The only part that’s true is that he once lived in this area and was called Rawhide Rick by a few people.”

  “I’ll go with you to Stone Creek to speak to the Coughlin brothers.”

  He shook his head. “No. That’s not necessary.” There was no way he wanted to go anywhere with Daphne McKinley.

  “I need to know the truth as much as you do, Mr. Crawford. How else can I correct the errors?” She arched her brows. “If any exist.”

  The challenge in her eyes was not lost on Joshua. “All right, Miss McKinley. We’ll go together, just as soon as I can arrange to be away from the newspaper for a few days.”

  Friday, 1 November 1918

  Dearest Mother,

  At last I write to you with what I believe is good news. Yesterday afternoon, I discovered the identity of the author of The McFarland Chronicles. To my great surprise, the writer I sought is not a man but a woman, and she writes her books under a pen name. It is my understanding that no one in Bethlehem Springs is aware of her writing endeavors. Even her own family didn’t know until my inquiries forced her confession.

  Miss M is a woman of some means and high position, not only in this town but elsewhere. (It is no wonder she uses a pseudonym.) To my great relief, she has agreed to correct the scurrilous assertions made in her novels about Grandfather once I prove that they are, indeed, erroneous. I shall keep her name in my confidence unless she otherwise forces my hand.

  Today I was able to make arrangements to meet with the two elderly gentlemen who claim to have known Grandfather in their youth and who were the sources for the material used in Miss M’s novels. They live in another town about fifty miles from Bethlehem Springs, and I will be traveling there next week. I trust that I will be able to reason with them and convince them to tell the truth I seek. If all goes well, I should be able to return to St. Louis early in the New Year.

  Has Mary Theresa been to see you? I wrote to her earlier and expect to receive a reply next week. I continue to hope that she has forgiven me for allowing my anger at Mr. Halifax and D. B. Morgan to spill over onto her. How often as a youth did Grandfather warn me about my quick temper? Even now I can hear him quoting Ephesians: “Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you.” I am sorry that I seem unable to practice those same disciplines with greater success in my Christian life.

  Give my regards to Charles. I pray that this letter finds you both in good health.

  Your devoted son,

  Joshua

  ELEVEN

  When Daphne and Joshua set out from Bethlehem Springs on the following Wednesday, the mood inside the automobile felt as chilly as the frosty November morning outside of it. That Daphne’s passenger was less than happy to spend today and tomorrow in her company was plain as the nose on her face.

  Would Joshua feel different toward her after they’d met with the Coughlin brothers? Or perhaps that would only serve to make things worse. She fully expected the elderly gentlemen to confirm all that Griff had told her. If Griff Arlington trusted them to be honest, so did she.

  Driving her automobile to Sto
ne Creek had been Daphne’s idea. Another reason for Joshua’s foul mood, no doubt. Taking the train would have left them more than twenty miles from their destination, which would have precipitated hiring a horse and carriage and most likely staying a second night in the Stone Creek boarding house.

  “It’s unnecessary,” she’d told Joshua. “My motorcar is sound and the weather is supposed to remain dry all week long.”

  “It’s my experience that weather predictions are often incorrect, Miss McKinley. Remember there was snow on the ground only a week ago.”

  She had merely smiled at him, and in the end, he’d acquiesced—as men tended to do when she was determined to have her way.

  They traveled south without a single word passing between them for three quarters of an hour. That was when Daphne spied five elk drinking at the river’s edge, the lone bull sporting a massive rack. She quickly brought the motorcar to a stop.

  “Look.” She pointed across the river. “Isn’t he magnificent?”

  Several moments passed before Joshua answered, “Indeed.”

  “I never tire of seeing the wildlife in these mountains.” She glanced at Joshua. “As long as we’re stopped, would you care to get out and stretch your legs?”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” He opened the passenger door and disembarked, then assisted her out as well.

  Pulling her coat close against the cool air, Daphne walked to the edge of the road to watch the elk on the opposite side of the low-running river. The animals had stopped drinking and were returning the stare.

  She heard Joshua step up beside her. Without looking his way, she said, “Do you know what that bull elk is thinking? He’s thinking, ‘Do we come into your home and watch while you eat and drink? Please go away.’ ” She laughed aloud, and it was her laughter that seemed to cause one of the cows to turn, unhurried and unafraid, and stride gracefully into the forest, followed soon by the others.

  “Do you do that a lot, Miss McKinley?”

  “Do what?”

  “Imagine the thoughts of wild animals.”

  She grinned. “I’m afraid it’s the curse of a novelist, Mr. Crawford. To put oneself into the head of another. To try to think what they think and feel what they feel. To always imagine what will happen next.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’re a writer.” Now she looked at him. “Surely you understand what I mean.”

  “I’m a journalist, Miss McKinley. I deal in facts, not fairy tales.”

  She ignored the note of condescension in his voice and mimicked his previous response, a low and gravelly sound in her throat. “Hmm.”

  This, at last, brought the hint of a smile to his lips, and in response, her heart thrummed. Perhaps in time he would be able to forgive her for the wrongs he believed her writing had done him. She hoped so. She wanted him to forgive her. She wanted him to like her, although she couldn’t think why it should matter to her that he did.

  “How much farther have we to go?” he asked, bringing her attention to the present.

  “Better than an hour and a half. It’s been mostly downhill so far, but after we turn east, we’ll have a few mountains to climb. That will slow us down considerably.”

  “Would you like me to drive the rest of the way?”

  “If you wish.”

  A short while later, the crank was turned, the engine was running, and both driver and passenger were in their seats.

  Unwilling to allow silence to fill the motorcar again, Daphne asked a question that she was certain would begin a conversation. “Would you tell me about your grandfather? I know you admired and loved him, but tell me why. What was he like in his latter years?”

  Joshua glanced in her direction as he pressed on the accelerator and the automobile rolled forward. His gaze returned to the road before he spoke. “Grandfather was sixty-nine when I was born, and he never seemed to change in the years I remember him. His skin was wrinkled and a bit leathery. The hair on his head was white as snow, and he wore it long enough to brush his shoulders. My mother was always after him to cut it, saying it was too long for the fashion, but she never persuaded him to change. He had a bushy white beard too. He looked a lot like the illustrations of Santa Claus. He seemed tall to me when I was a child, but by the time he passed away, I was already taller.”

  Daphne noticed the small smile had returned to the corners of Joshua’s mouth as he spoke.

  “He was a strong man, even into his eighties. Almost to the time of his death, he could lift and carry things that many younger men couldn’t.”

  “Do you look like him?”

  He nodded. “He had only a few photographs from his younger years. One was taken of him in California, close to the time the Civil War began. He was a lot leaner then than in his later years and the photograph wasn’t very good, but the resemblance to me today at about the same age is unmistakable.”

  “And that pleases you. I can tell.”

  “Yes, I guess it does.” He rubbed his chin with his right hand as his smile broadened. “Maybe I should consider growing a beard.”

  Daphne preferred Joshua clean-shaven but didn’t share her opinion with him.

  “Grandfather liked to suck on peppermints. His breath always smelled of them. That’s my earliest memory of him. Sitting on his lap and smelling peppermint.”

  She envied that kind of memory. Her grandparents, both paternal and maternal, had passed away either before she was born or while she was still too young to remember them.

  “Above all, Miss McKinley, he was nothing like the character you portrayed in your books. You couldn’t have written a more opposing character if you’d tried.”

  Daphne pressed her lips together, swallowing a reply while turning her gaze out the window to her right. There was no point starting another argument. Nothing would be resolved until they reached Stone Creek and met with the Coughlins.

  Joshua didn’t need to look at Daphne to know she wanted to protest, to stand up once again for the stories she’d written, and he wished he could call back his words. Why bait her? He would prove the truth soon enough.

  He decided to aim the conversation in a different direction. “I believe it’s your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “Tell me something I don’t know about the McKinleys.”

  “Gracious. What could be left for you to know? You’ve already ferreted out my well-kept secret.”

  He glanced at her quickly, wondering if he’d upset her. But she was watching him with a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her lips. Had he ever met a woman with as much self-confidence as she seemed to possess? He thought not. His mother was the shy, retiring sort. And Mary Theresa? She liked to cling to his arm when they were in social settings. Not so Daphne. He had the feeling she was utterly fearless, wherever she found herself.

  His gaze back on the road, he couldn’t help but smile as well. “I imagine you have more than one secret, Miss McKinley.”

  She answered him with laughter. A sound almost as lovely as she was.

  His reaction was instantaneous and unexpected. The desire to take her in his arms and kiss her until he’d left her breathless was so strong he could hardly think straight, let alone remember how to drive. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was as dry as dust.

  What was wrong with him? Yes, he’d felt an unwelcome attraction to the lovely Miss McKinley before this. But now that he knew she was D. B. Morgan, he should feel nothing more for her than…than contempt. Or at the very least, indifference. Certainly he should have more self-control than to allow a woman’s laughter to stir such a strong response. Particularly this young woman.

  “I believe, Mr. Crawford, that I am mostly an open book.” Her voice was soft, barely audible above the putter of the engine.

  Her beauty was indisputable. In the short time he’d known her, he’d been captivated by her wit and charm—which she had in abundance. Even when he was angry because of her irresponsible portrayal of his grandfather in her silly little book
s, he’d found he still enjoyed her company. How could that be?

  “Except for my writing, I’ve tried not to keep secrets.”

  He cleared his throat. “Wise words, indeed.”

  “I’ve learned keeping secrets can complicate one’s life.” She paused for a moment, then added, “And they often hurt those you love too.”

  Have you ever been in love, Miss McKinley? The question that popped into his head was not the kind a gentleman could ask aloud, but he wished he had the answer to it all the same.

  The necessity of backing an automobile up steep hillsides to avoid flooding the engine was both bothersome and time consuming, and it took them longer to reach Stone Creek than Daphne had expected. It was already suppertime when Joshua stopped the motorcar in front of the boarding house.

  The proprietress of the Stone Creek Boarding House was a Mrs. Hannigan, a plump, short, buxom woman with graying brown hair and a friendly smile. She took them straight to the dining room. “You’ll be wanting to eat first, and I’ll show you to your rooms when we’re done.”

  Daphne would have loved a few minutes to freshen up, but it seemed she wasn’t to have that option.

  Mrs. Hannigan made quick introductions of the three other people at the table—her sixteen-year-old daughter, Fiona Hanni-gan; Mr. Pratt, a traveling salesman; and Miss Conner, who had come to Stone Creek to marry the manager of the bank. “And this is Miss McKinley and Mr. Crawford, who’ll be with us for one night.”

  “How do you do,” Daphne said with a nod to each person before slipping onto one of the empty chairs.

  Joshua sat beside her.

  “And what brings you and Mr. Crawford to Stone Creek?” Mr. Pratt passed Daphne a bowl of mashed potatoes.

  She thought about her response for a moment, not certain how much she wanted to reveal to a perfect stranger.

  Joshua answered before her. “I’m the editor of the Bethlehem Springs’ newspaper, and I’ve come to interview two men about some early Idaho history. Miss McKinley writes a column for the Triweekly Herald and is along to observe.”