The Telegraph Proposal

  It wasn’t as terrible as Hale imagined it would be. He usually avoided town until just before seven when most people were tucked inside their homes for their evening meal.

  His routine was to work until five, lock his outside door, spend another ninety minutes working on things which required concentration, wash up, then head to Gibbon’s Steak House or another restaurant for dinner before returning home to read for an hour before bed.

  It was a boring life, but it suited him for now. When he was married, he’d head home at five, play with his children while his wife finished up dinner preparations, and then enjoy an evening by the fireside helping his children with their lessons while his wife knitted. They would put the children to bed, sit together reading their books, then walk hand in hand to their bedroom.

  A nice dream he was smart enough to know would never fully come true, but that didn’t keep him from thinking about it. People exhausted him. He needed hours of quiet before facing another day at work.

  He thought back over the letters he’d written to Portia. Had he ever expressed his desire for a peaceful life? If so, Yancey wouldn’t have answered him back. The girl flitted from one social engagement to another as though it were her occupation. Although—now that he thought about it—he didn’t go out on the town enough to know if that was true or just his impression of her. Where had it come from?

  Hale reached the Palmers’ house at five thirty only to be informed that Yancey wasn’t home. Mrs. Palmer’s yellow apron was streaked with red. “I’m making a cherry pie. Would you like to have dinner with us?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am. I appreciate the offer, but I very much need to find your daughter.” The words felt sticky coming off his tongue.

  “She’s most likely at Carline’s house. And if not, Carline will know where to find her.” Mrs. Palmer swiped her fingers across her stomach, leaving another trail of red on her apron. “Do you need directions?”

  “I do.” Which was galling to admit. After five years of living in Helena, he ought to know where Mr. and Mrs. Pope lived, particularly because he’d shared a pew with them on many Sundays over the last five years.

  If Mrs. Palmer was shocked by his admission, she hid it well—which was a relief after the many times he’d been raked over the coals today. She pointed him in the right direction, repeated her offer to host him for dinner, and when he declined again, closed the door.

  Hale’s stomach protested. The delicious smells emanating from Mrs. Palmer’s kitchen were no less alluring because she’d shut the door. The walk to the Popes’ house was a mere two blocks. A cool breeze blew across his cheeks. Last night’s rain left the streets damp and a pervasive scent of wet earth in the air. Though he chose to make his living inside the walls of an office, he dreamed of one day having a garden of his own. For now, he made do with the small window box of flowers outside his upstairs apartment window.

  The Popes’ home was along the same lines as the Palmers’, modest and well-kept, with a full-length front porch. Lilac bushes grew on either side of the stairs, their gracious scent perfuming the air well before he crossed between them to climb the steps. He inhaled their fragrance and prayed for strength to get through the unpleasant task ahead. As soon as he reached the door, the smell of roasting beef overpowered the lilacs. His stomach squeezed, reminding him that he’d eaten only an apple and some cheddar cheese for lunch.

  He knocked three times and took one step back. The thud of footsteps increased in volume, then the door swung inward revealing a man Hale didn’t recognize. His hair was thin on top of his rounded face, his cheeks were filled with weblike red veins, and the look in his blue eyes was a cross between hostile and suspicious. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Hale Adams. I’ve come to speak with Miss Yancey Palmer. Is she available?”

  Before he finished speaking, Miss Palmer appeared in the background. She came closer, a streak of flour on her chin. “Mr. Adams. What are you doing here?”

  Hale stepped backward again. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

  The stranger blocking the doorway didn’t move until Miss Palmer said, “It’s all right, Mr. Nordstrom. Mr. Adams and I are well-acquainted.”

  True and more tactful than Hale expected. Or deserved.

  Mr. Nordstrom turned sideways, allowing Miss Palmer to pass him, then closed the door most of the way.

  With a grin, she pulled the door closed. When she turned her attention to him, her smile faded. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?” Her tone was cordial and cold.

  Hale removed his black hat and held it behind his back. “I was wondering if you might join me for a campaign meeting sometime in the next week or two.”

  A lopsided smile curved her lips. “A public show of support, Mr. Adams?”

  “Quite so, Miss Palmer.” His fingers ached from how tightly they were squeezed on the brim of his hat.

  The curve of her lips evened out on both sides, yet it lacked warmth. “Let me make a few things clear, Mr. Adams.”

  Hale braced himself for a dressing down.

  “I agree that we”—she pointed at her chest and then at his—“need to be seen together for the sake of the campaign. However, I have no desire to be alone with you on what could be misconstrued as a private social engagement.”

  “My apologies. I should have mentioned that I will, of course, be inviting Mr. and Mrs. Isaak Gunderson to join us.”

  Amusement flickered in her eyes. “Yes. You should have. It does no good, Mr. Adams, to keep vital information to yourself when you are trying to work with people.” Her expression turned serious. “I would be more comfortable if you invited your aunt and Mrs. Hollenbeck as well. As our purpose is to show a united front for the sake of your campaign, I’d like to be one of several people who are known supporters.”

  A good point. One he should have thought of himself. “I will ask them to join us.”

  “Thank you.” She wiped her fingers on the brown apron tied around her waist. “I’m free every night for the next two weeks save for Thursdays.”

  She was? Hale blinked to bring this unexpected view of her into focus. It couldn’t be her normal activity. There must be a shortage of entertainments in town. “I will coordinate with the various parties to select a date and time.”

  “Again, thank you.” She dipped her chin in a way that seemed too regal for a girl dressed in calico and wearing flour on her apron and face. “If you could send round a note letting me know when it’s arranged, I’d appreciate it.”

  Hale loosened his grip on his hat. “I’ll borrow a carriage and come for you, with Mr. and Mrs. Gunderson along, if that’s amenable.”

  She rubbed her chin, as though just now aware of the flour. “That will be fine. Include the time you’ll pick me up and I’ll be ready.”

  He doubted it. Flighty women delighted in keeping men waiting in order to make a grand entrance.

  But six nights later, when he knocked on her door precisely at a quarter to seven, Mr. Palmer opened it and invited Hale inside. Miss Palmer was in the parlor, which had been redecorated since the last time Hale visited. She rose from the settee, the shimmery blue dress she wore making a soft, shushing sound. Her matching reticule bulged, the drawstring unable to close over the top of the little bag. It looked like she was carrying a brick. To bash him in the head? “Mr. Adams.”

  He took off his hat and bowed. “Miss Palmer. You look lovely this evening.” Which she did. She really did. Another layer went across the top of the wall he kept between himself and her. Beautiful women were not to be trusted. They lacked character, their way in the world and ability to make men lose their heads too easy. For proof, Hale need only look to his own father.

  “What time may I expect my daughter home?” Mr. Palmer’s calm voice cut into Hale’s misgivings.

  “Somewhere between eight thirty and nine.”

  “Very well, then.” Mr. Palmer kissed his daughter on the cheek and whispered something that sounded like, “Be ni
ce.”

  Miss Palmer nodded, her next breath shaky. “Good night, Papa. I’ll see you when I get home.”

  Hale offered her his arm. She stared at it without placing her hand inside his elbow. Would she deny him the gentlemanly gesture? He was about to lower his arm when she took it, her touch so light he barely felt it through the black suit.

  They crossed the threshold and down the steps in silence. Polite phrases tumbled inside his head, none of them feeling genuine or appropriate for the occasion. Due to his own lack of good judgment, he was escorting a woman he’d avoided for the past five years to dinner at his favorite restaurant. The place would never have the same appeal after tonight.

  Miss Palmer, who was reputed to be a brilliant conversationalist, was equally silent.

  What a delightful evening this was going to be. Hopefully, the presence of the newlyweds, his aunt, and Mrs. Hollenbeck would ease the awkwardness between them. Thank goodness Zoe and Isaak were already in the four-seater carriage. Hale opened his mouth to suggest that he and Isaak share the front bench while the women shared the back one. He pressed his lips together again. No man who looked at his wife the way Isaak did would agree to leave her side.

  After assisting Miss Palmer into the borrowed carriage—where she immediately struck up an animated conversation with Zoe Gunderson—Hale crossed in front of the matched bay horses and climbed up beside her. He flicked the reins, calling a soft, “Move along.”

  “Is this Mr. Buchanan’s carriage?” Miss Palmer’s tone was congenial.

  Not sure if the question was for him, Hale waited to see if someone else answered. No one did, so he replied, “It is.”

  The bladesmith wasn’t a particular friend of Hale’s, but he was of Isaak Gunderson’s. After Hale and Isaak caught up on his elopement and “the great Yancey Palmer debacle,” as Hale had mentally dubbed it, Isaak agreed to help smooth things over. Procuring the carriage was one of those ways.

  A soft chuckle came from Miss Palmer.

  “Something amuses you?” Hale flicked a glance her way before returning his attention to the team. He usually walked or took the steam car through town so, although he knew how to handle a carriage, he needed to concentrate so he didn’t make a fool of himself.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Palmer clasp her hands together in her lap. The satin ribbon of her reticule dug deep into her white lace gloves. “It’s nothing.” She then turned on the seat to engage Isaak’s bride in conversation again.

  Hale’s grip on the reins tightened, but he managed to keep from transferring his tension to the horses. They clopped along at a steady pace. The women chattered for several blocks. Neither he nor Isaak said anything. Hale cleared his throat. Etiquette demanded that he at least engage in some conversation. He waited for a break in the conversation between the ladies. “Miss Palmer—”

  “Please stop.”

  “But—”

  She reached over and pulled on the reins. “Whoa.”

  Oh. She didn’t mean stop talking, she meant stop the carriage. She turned away from him to address a middle-aged woman with a tight expression. “Mrs. Morrow. How is your daughter?”

  The woman gave Hale a sidelong glance filled with disgust before turning her head to beam at Miss Palmer. “She’s much better today, thank you for asking. The baby should be here any day now, so that’ll make everything all right.”

  “Please give her my best and tell her that the Ladies’ Aid Society—myself included—are keeping her in our prayers.”

  Miss Palmer kept talking, but Hale didn’t hear another word. In his mind’s eye, he saw the flowing script of Portia telling him about her charitable work with a local ladies’ group. How similar were Portia and Yancey? He snuck a glance at his companion. He could only see the side of her face and how well the bodice of her shimmering blue dress fit her figure. A small blond curl resting against her neck caught the light.

  Portia had described herself as blond.

  Portia and Yancey. Yancey and Portia.

  Was it possible they were more alike than dissimilar? His hands jerked, pulling the reins too hard and making the horses snort.

  “Careful there,” Isaak whispered from behind. “I’d hate to return the horses with sore mouths.”

  Cheeks warm at the rebuke, Hale relaxed his grip.

  “—see you soon.” The inflexion in Miss Palmer’s voice said she was wrapping up her conversation with Mrs. Morrow. “Good evening.”

  Hale waited for Mrs. Morrow to repeat the farewell and step back before setting the horses in motion again. Mercifully, the restaurant was only another block away. Hale pulled the carriage to a stop. Isaak sprang out and jogged around the front of the horses to assist the ladies out. Mrs. Hollenbeck and Aunt Lily were visible through the large plate-glass window etched with Gibbon’s Steak House. They waved, and Hale dipped his chin to acknowledge their greeting. As soon as Isaak and the ladies were safely on the boardwalk, Hale snapped the reins.

  The carriage lurched into motion. He steered it behind the restaurant to a dirt-packed lot with several hitching rails. He found an empty one near the back, tied up the horses, and gave them each an apple. “I hope you enjoy your dinner, because I’m fairly certain I won’t.”

  He shook his head. Now he was talking to horses. Look at what Yancey Palmer had driven him to. He marched toward the restaurant, defying his uncle’s instructions to saunter with a pleasant expression on his face at all times. Hand on the door, he took a deep breath and pulled it open.

  Chapter Nine

  Wishing to avoid more awkwardness between her and Hale, Yancey took a seat between Mrs. Forsythe and Mrs. Hollenbeck. The latter smiled with a hint of amusement. “Very wise.”

  The simple comment made Yancey suppress a grin. Her days of making a fool of herself over Hale Adams were done. Let the era of the new-and-improved Yancey Palmer begin.

  Conversation flowed among the five of them as they waited for Hale. In all her imaginings of sitting beside Hale in a carriage, never had she thought it would be so uncomfortable. He’d said barely two words.

  Shy was one thing. Downright unsociable was another. The man graduated from Harvard, for crying out loud. Surely he should be able to manage a ten-minute conversation during a carriage ride.

  When he arrived at the table—a smile fixed on his face as though someone had glued it there—Yancey held her breath, waiting for the same surly man who’d driven the carriage to reappear. He sat down and struck up a conversation with his aunt.

  Yancey released her breath.

  Her irritation with Hale faded over the next ten minutes as he slowly lost his phony smile while engaging in conversation with everyone around the table. The scrupulously polite smile only appeared when he spoke to her.

  Mrs. Forsythe leaned close. “Thank you for coming tonight. I know continuing to support Hale’s campaign can’t be easy for you.”

  Yancey’s throat tightened. “It isn’t, but I’m determined to prove that I am no longer romantically interested in Ha—” She swallowed back the rest of his first name. Just because everyone else around the table was using it, she wasn’t going to claim that intimacy. Not anymore. She’d done so in the past for all the wrong reasons. “In Mr. Adams.”

  Goodness. That was harder than expected. She’d called him by his formal name before. Why was it so hard this time?

  She squared her shoulders and smiled at Mrs. Forsythe. “He’s the best candidate for mayor. I’m here as a show of support for his campaign, nothing more.”

  Mrs. Forsythe reached over to squeeze Yancey’s hand. “You are a treasure, Yancey dear.”

  Hearing her mother’s words on Mrs. Forsythe’s lips made Yancey’s chest ache. She wanted to be a treasure to someone else. Someone who would vow to love and cherish her all her days. Someone to whom she could vow the same in return.

  The letters inside her reticule suddenly weighed ten pounds. She eased the satin ribbon from around her wrist and set the purse in he
r lap. When she removed her gloves, her right wrist was ringed in red and imprinted with a lace pattern. She rubbed at it to relieve the pain.

  “What do you think, Yancey?” Isaak’s question held a note of exasperation.

  She looked around the table. Every eye was on her. “About what?”

  Isaak sliced a startled look at his wife. She must have kicked him under the table—no, she was too gentle for that. Whatever she’d done, the scowl on Isaak’s face eased when he addressed Yancey again. “Hale just said he thought it might be a good idea to differentiate himself from Kendrick by doing something other than a picnic on July Fourth.”

  “Oh, I agree wholeheartedly.” She turned and smiled at Hale—Mr. Adams.

  He blinked several times. “You do?”

  “Yes.” Yancey rattled off her idea to host a catered brunch for select people of large-scale influence, some who were already openly supporting his candidacy and others still on the fence. This would be followed by an evening potluck dinner and games which would last until the annual fireworks display.

  “What time were you planning on having dinner?” Mr. Adams asked, something akin to horror in his tone of voice. “The fireworks won’t start until nearly ten thirty in the evening.”

  His aversion to crowds was well-known, and everyone around the table chuckled at his display.

  In the past, Yancey would have pitied him. Or come to his defense. Or made excuses for him.

  Not anymore.

  “Mr. Adams”—she smiled at him with scrupulous politeness—“I’m aware that three or four hours of mingling is not your cup of tea, but if you are going to run for mayor, you’re going to have to buck up and do things which make you uncomfortable.”

  She certainly was.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck snorted with laughter. “Well said, Yancey.”