It was as if Daphne’s heart had begun to beat again after too many days of quiet.
“Miss McKinley.” Joshua crossed the room to the sofa. “I’m sorry to learn you haven’t returned to your usual good health as yet.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crawford.” She’d missed him, she realized—and wondered why it had taken so long for him to come to see her.
He settled onto a nearby chair.
“And you’ve been well?” she asked. A silly question. He looked wonderful.
“Yes, I’ve been well. But Stone Creek wasn’t as lucky as Bethlehem Springs. Did you hear?”
She shook her head.
“Quite a few deaths reported. Twenty, last I heard. Mrs. Han-nigan from the boarding house and her daughter were among them. That must have been where you contracted it. The incubation period’s fast with this flu.”
Daphne covered her mouth with her hand. What if she and Joshua had made it back to Bethlehem Springs that first day? What if she’d exposed Morgan and his family to the disease before she’d known she was ill? Oh, she never would have forgiven herself if anything had happened to them because of her actions.
“I’m sorry, Miss McKinley. I didn’t mean to cause you distress.” He moved as if to rise. “Perhaps I should go.”
She reached out a hand toward him. “No. Please. You haven’t distressed me. Truly.”
“Well…if you’re sure.” He settled back in the chair. “I did wish to speak with you.”
“Yes?”
“I wondered if you felt up to writing your column for the newspaper again. You’re a welcome voice for our readers, and they’ve missed seeing it in their Monday papers these last three weeks.”
Daphne suspected Joshua of exaggeration. After all, she’d only written two columns for the paper before she’d fallen victim to the Spanish influenza. Readers of the Herald couldn’t possibly have become accustomed to it, at least not enough to miss it.
“The Herald’s received a number of letters in response to your last column.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew some envelopes. “I brought them for you to read. Perhaps they’ll give you some ideas.”
She accepted the proffered envelopes.
“What do you say?” he persisted, leaning toward her. “Are you ready to write for me again?” He grinned.
She felt so strange all of a sudden. The room seemed to spin, and her heart had begun to flutter as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wings. An unwelcome memory flitted through her mind. A memory of the morning she’d awakened to find Joshua asleep beside her on the small bed in the cabin, his breath warm upon her neck. There had been nothing improper about it, and yet…
“Thank you, Miss McKinley.”
She wished he would call her Daphne, as he’d done a few times when they were trapped in that cabin. Calling her Miss McKinley seemed so formal now.
He stood. “I look forward to receiving your column this Friday.”
“This Friday,” she echoed softly.
He looked as if there was more he wanted to say to her. There was something in his eyes, something about the set of his mouth. She found herself holding her breath. But in the end, he only gave his head a nod before turning and striding toward the entry.
Daphne lay back on the sofa, trying to quiet the odd sensations churning inside her.
Gwen McKinley smiled at Joshua as she handed him his hat and coat. “Thank you for doing this, Mr. Crawford,” she said in a near whisper. “We’ve been quite worried about our dear Daphne. Her spirits have been low, and that’s completely unlike her.”
He remembered suggesting Daphne was an optimist and her agreeing with him, saying she got it from her mother. “I’m glad I could be of service, Mrs. McKinley.” He set his hat on his head. “I hope her writing will do the trick.” He reached for the door.
“Mr. Crawford, have you plans for Thanksgiving?”
“Plans?” He shook his head.
“Then would you be good enough to dine with us?”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
She laughed softly. “Don’t be silly, sir. You will be just one of several guests in our home for the holiday. Hardly an imposition. We have so much to be thankful for, having our Daphne returned to us safely and the rest of the family in good health. And you’re responsible for saving Daphne’s life. How could we not include you?”
Gwen McKinley’s effusive words made Joshua uncomfortable. Yes, he’d cared for Daphne through the worst of her illness, but if he hadn’t allowed her to go with him to Stone Creek, she wouldn’t have fallen ill in the first place. If he hadn’t been so set on proving her wrong, she wouldn’t have had cause for wanting to accompany him.
“Please join us, Mr. Crawford.” Gwen placed her fingers lightly on the back of his hand. “No one should be alone on Thanksgiving Day.”
There would be no refusing her, he realized. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she had no intention of accepting any excuse he made. And truth be known, he didn’t want to refuse. “All right, Mrs. McKinley. I shall be delighted to accept your invitation.”
“Wonderful. Everyone will come to the house immediately after attending the community Thanksgiving service at the Presbyterian church.”
With another nod, Joshua opened the door and went out into the frigid November air. He bent his head into the wind as he walked along Skyview Street, down the hillside, and through the center of town to the newspaper offices. By the time he opened the door to the Herald, his face and ears felt half frozen from the cold.
He hung his hat and coat on the rack. At his desk, he picked up that morning’s edition of the newspaper. Glancing through the pages, he made mental notes to himself about changes he wanted to make in future editions. And those thoughts made him think of Daphne again.
Naturally.
She’d rarely been out of his thoughts since their return to Bethlehem Springs.
When Morgan had dropped by the newspaper office early that morning and shared his concerns about his sister’s health and lethargy, Joshua had been glad for a reason to call upon her at the McKinley home. He’d wanted to visit before now, but he’d always stopped himself from going. Perhaps because whenever he thought of her, he pictured her sitting up in bed, her dark mass of hair falling around her shoulders.
He rubbed his hands over his face, as if he could wipe away that image. But he couldn’t. It was burned into his mind, and it troubled him. Deeply troubled him. For the truth was, now that the danger was over, now that they were safely home, he couldn’t help wishing they were back in that cabin, just the two of them, under much different circumstances.
October 15, 1872
Bethlehem Springs is like Idaho City in many ways. Gold strikes in 1863 brought hordes of people into the mountains of the Boise Basin. When I left Bethlehem Springs nearly two years ago, there were several mining enterprises to the west still in operation and a new lumber mill to the south. The town also had at least a half dozen saloons and numerous other businesses. There remains a lot of promise for a better future for the citizens of Bethlehem Springs, but it will never grow to be the size of Idaho City. At least that’s what I predict.
When I arrived in Bethlehem Springs in the spring of 1866, I acquired an existing saloon, purchased the livery stable, and opened my law office. I also took it upon myself to build an opera house. I aspired to refinement—or to, at the very least, have others think me refined.
I guess it worked, for the following year I was sworn into office as a judge. Judge Richard Terrell, the very same man who’d been dubbed Rawhide Rick when he first arrived in California seventeen years earlier. I was a self-made man without any formal education. (At least I considered myself self-made at the time. Now I see things somewhat differently. I believe God was altering the course of my life even then.)
I wish I could write that becoming an arbiter of justice changed me for the better, but that would be a lie. Another lie in a long string of lies. Truth was a relative thi
ng in my mind. I told it when it was convenient or beneficial to me. I twisted it when to do otherwise wouldn’t be convenient or beneficial to me. What mattered to Richard Terrell was the only thing that was important.
As a lawyer, I was interested in one thing—winning. As a judge, I was interested in doing whatever would help me in the present or the future. Plenty of men paid me to find in their behalf.
It wasn’t that I needed the money. I was already a wealthy man. I’d been a wealthy man for many, many years by then. I owned the largest, most elegant house in town. I had the best horses and the finest carriage. But no matter how much I had, it was never enough. Enough wasn’t a word in my vocabulary. I was greedy.
Perhaps I became that way because of the poverty I experienced in my early years. Or perhaps it’s the sin-nature I was born with. Who besides God can know our hearts and minds?
I can sleep at night now only because I know that I didn’t sentence any innocent men to death or to long prison terms. But did I mete out true justice in my court? Not often. Maybe not ever.
SEVENTEEN
Daphne finished reading the article, then laid the sheets of paper on the writing desk with a sigh of satisfaction. She’d done it. Her next column was ready to turn in. She hoped Joshua would be as pleased with it as she was. After all, he’d inspired the topic. Not that anyone other than she and Joshua would know.
She pushed the chair back from the desk. Lifting her arms above her head, she stood and stretched.
Her gaze moved around the second-story bedroom of her brother’s house. It was comfortable and familiar to her, and yet it wasn’t home. She missed her own little office and her many books and even her brand-new typewriter. She missed the freedom that came with living alone. While she was grateful for the care Morgan and Gwen had given her during her illness and recovery, she was ready to be out from under their watchful eyes. The depression, the lethargy, seemed to have lifted at last. Perhaps because writing the article on the desk had required her to think and act.
She crossed the room and sank onto the edge of her bed, lifting her Bible off the nightstand as she did so. She opened it to 1st Chronicles, the twenty-eighth chapter, and read aloud the words that had spoken to her heart that morning: “And David said to Solomon his son, Be strong and of good courage, and do it: fear not, nor be dismayed: for the LORD God, even my God, will be with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee, until thou hast finished all the work for the service of the house of the LORD.”
Do it. Do the work. God will be with thee.
It seemed so clear. The Lord was telling her to get on with her work. He would be with her in whatever He called her to do. And hadn’t Paul told believers that whatever they did, they were to do it as unto the Lord and with all their might? She was a writer, and she should be writing.
She closed the Bible and set it on the bed beside her.
It was time she went home and got back to work. She was well. God had restored her to good health. She would return to her own home tomorrow night, as soon as all of the McKinley Thanksgiving guests had departed.
Feeling energized by her decision, she left the bedroom, following the sound of Gwen’s voice into the nursery, where she found her sister-in-law seated on the floor, Ellie held in the crook of her left arm and Andy held in the crook of her right arm as she read to him from an open book.
Thank You, Father, that they didn’t take sick. It was a prayer of gratitude she’d sent up daily in the two weeks since she and Joshua were brought back to Bethlehem Springs in her brother’s sleigh.
She entered the nursery and sank down beside Gwen. “Can I be of help?”
Her sister-in-law smiled as she passed the dozing infant into Daphne’s waiting arms.
“Mama’s reading,” Andy offered, turning the page of his book.
“I see that. What’s the story?” Tom Sum.
“Tom Thumb,” Gwen corrected.
Grinning, the boy said, “He’s littler than me. He’s even littler than Ellie.”
Daphne laughed. “I know. Tom Thumb’s only this big.” She held up her right thumb.
Andy tugged on his mother’s arm, demanding that she continue with the story. Gwen obliged, and Daphne was content to listen as she gently rocked Ellie from side to side, her gaze fastened on the baby’s sweet face. She had little notion how much time passed before she realized Gwen had fallen silent. She glanced up to find Andy had fallen asleep like his sister.
“You’re feeling stronger today,” Gwen whispered. “I can tell.”
Daphne nodded. “Much.”
“Good.” Gwen looked at Andy. “Let’s put these two down so you and I can relax.”
A short while later, with the children both in their beds, the two women slipped out of the nursery, Gwen closing the door behind them.
“I finished my next column for the newspaper.” Daphne slipped her arm into the crook of Gwen’s. “I think it’s rather good if I do say so myself.”
“May I read it?”
“Do you mind waiting until Mr. Crawford says whether or not he likes it?”
“Not at all. I remember what I was like when I was writing a column for the paper.”
They began down the stairs, taking each step in unison.
“Do you miss it?” Daphne asked when they reached the bottom step.
“Writing? Not really. I’ve found other things more satisfying.”
“I fear I would miss it horribly.”
They walked into the front parlor, and Gwen settled onto the settee. Daphne sat on a nearby chair.
“I read one of your books.”
Daphne felt a shiver of nerves. She’d known Morgan had told his wife about her novels, but the two women hadn’t spoken of them before this moment. There hadn’t been an opportunity before Daphne’s trip to Stone Creek, and after the trip she’d been too ill. “Which one?” she asked softly.
“The first one. The Fate of Phoebe Tate.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was quite the adventure, wasn’t it?”
That wasn’t a real answer to her question, but Daphne let it pass. “Would you be embarrassed if others knew I was the author?”
“No.” Gwen frowned thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed. Neither would your brother. But whatever made you decide to write that kind of story? A dime novel doesn’t—” She gave a small shrug. “It doesn’t seem like you.”
Daphne felt a sting of disappointment, realizing then that she’d hoped for words of praise. “I love all the legends of the Old West. After I came to Idaho and had the opportunity to listen to so many of Griff’s stories, I discovered I wanted to write about some of them. That’s what got me started. When I wrote The Fate of Phoebe Tate, I never dreamed it would actually get published.”
“And what about Rawhide Rick? Did you portray him accurately?”
“According to the Coughlins, yes.”
“Poor Mr. Crawford. I suppose now that he knows the truth about his grandfather he’ll go back to St. Louis.”
Daphne caught her breath. She hadn’t thought of that. Was learning about his grandfather’s past the only thing that had brought Joshua to Bethlehem Springs? Hadn’t he come for a job with the Herald? Would he really leave so soon? And why on earth did the notion of his leaving make her feel bereft?
Wednesday, 27 November 1918
Dear Mary Theresa,
I regret that it has taken so long for me to reply to your letter of 4 November. It arrived when I was out of town, and I have been much occupied with other matters since my return to Bethlehem Springs.
Perhaps Mother told you that I was to interview a couple of elderly gentlemen who purportedly knew my grandfather when he lived in Idaho. At the time I met with them, I wasn’t satisfied with what they had to tell me and didn’t give them sufficient time to tell me everything they knew. I have since written to them with additional questions. I am also querying the Idaho Daily Statesman in Boise City as well as applying for infor
mation from the state. I’m told that Grandfather served as a judge for three years here in Crow County. A fire in Bethlehem Springs in 1886 destroyed county government records along with the newspaper archives, but I hope I can get the information I desire from other sources.
It is clear to me that I will be obliged to remain in Idaho longer than previously planned. Perhaps until spring. I have determined not to leave until I am convinced of the complete facts regarding my grandfather. Naturally, I also hope that my findings will allow me to prove that what Mr. Halifax suggested about him was unfounded and untrue.
Bethlehem Springs has had one case of the Spanish influenza, but so far there have been no new cases reported. Every one of my acquaintance here is understandably thankful to God that the town hasn’t suffered a worse outbreak.
I pray that this letter will find you well.
I remain affectionately yours,
Joshua
Joshua looked at the closing words and wondered at their accuracy. Was he affectionately hers? He’d thought so for a number of years. After all, it had been the wish of both of their grandfathers that the two families would be joined through the marriage of Joshua and Mary Theresa.
“But I don’t love her,” he whispered as he signed his name. “I don’t desire her.”
It hadn’t bothered him before, the lack of passion between them. He and Mary Theresa were fond of each other. They had grown up together and had countless shared memories. They were both believers in the saving grace of Jesus Christ. Weren’t those things enough to build a good marriage upon?
He tried to picture Mary Theresa in his mind, to remind himself of the many things he liked and admired about her. But it wasn’t Mary Theresa’s image he recalled. It was Daphne’s, her thick black hair cascading about her shoulders, her brown eyes wide and inquiring, her generous mouth bowed in a smile.
Why, he wondered, had the beautiful Miss McKinley never married? He suspected it was because no man had come along who’d swept her off her feet. She had a zest for living that was revealed in her dark eyes and her joyous laughter and her wondrous smile. A marriage lacking in ardor and zeal would never do for her.
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 57