The Telegraph Proposal

  Mr. Adams flushed.

  For a fleeting moment, Yancey felt sorry for him. But that was the reaction of the old her. The new her had told the truth. Mr. Adams would just have to squirm and get over it.

  If he intended to respond to her challenge, he didn’t get the chance. Isaak turned the conversation to the logistics of the brunch and extended dinner as though they were scheduled events rather than mere propositions. Yancey had thought through much of the planning already. She inserted her ideas, including Zoe catering the brunch at Mrs. Hollenbeck’s house. Both women readily agreed to the suggestion, and soon everyone at the table was so engaged in conversation, the waiter had to come back twice before they were ready to order dinner.

  Hale—Mr. Adams—was beginning to look at her with grudging respect.

  It made Yancey feel a little giddy. Self-assured. Accomplished. Hale Adams might be the best candidate for mayor of their fine town, but Yancey Palmer was the best person to help him win.

  The discussion veered from politics to a wide variety of subjects. At every naturally occurring opportunity, she made sure everyone around the table—and everyone else in the crowded restaurant—understood she was over her romantic infatuation with Mr. Hale Adams.

  “I put away my romantic interest in Mr. Adams when Mr. Hendry started courting me”—in response to Zoe finding out that Yancey had once pretended to faint when he was nearby.

  “I firmly believe Mr. Adams is the best candidate for mayor. Whatever our past difficulties, we’ve put them behind us for the sake of Helena”—to Mollie Fisk, who stopped by to announce that she and her fiancé, Jefferson Brady, had reconciled and were now planning a fall wedding.

  “Thank you for your concern, Malachi, but Mr. Adams apologized for his misunderstanding. We are on friendly terms now”—to the maître d’ during his check on the quality of their food and service.

  But her assurances were as much for them as for herself. It was all fine and good to declare she was over the man, but it was slightly more difficult to put into practice.

  Especially when he was in his element.

  Somewhere between the consommé and the perfectly cooked steak, Hale finally relaxed. He laughed easily, told several witty stories, lightly flirted with Mrs. Hollenbeck, and teased Isaak by telling Zoe what her husband was like at fifteen. He even asked Yancey to call him Hale because everyone else was.

  The time flew by. The dessert plates were being cleared when Hale pulled out his pocket watch and clicked open the lid. “I told Mr. Palmer I’d have his daughter home by nine and it’s a quarter until that time now.”

  “Trust Hale to always have his eye on the time,” Mrs. Hollenbeck teased. Everyone laughed, his punctuality as well-known as his aversion to crowds. “As enchanting as this evening has been, I must get home myself. Perhaps we can arrange another meeting and finalize the details later.”

  Goodbyes were said in a hurry, and Yancey was back in the front seat of the carriage headed home in a matter of minutes. The ride was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Birds and crickets chirped, wind rustled tree leaves, and the steady clip-clop of horse hooves and the crunch of rocks under the steel-rimmed carriage wheels were the only sounds. This was more like what she’d envisioned when she dreamed of coming home after a night with Hale. But she wasn’t going to let her imagination run away with her.

  She glanced behind her. Isaak and Zoe were sitting close together—his arm around her shoulders holding her close to his side.

  They were such a lovely couple.

  Yancey faced forward and sighed.

  When they reached her home, Hale handed the reins to Isaak and said, “Be careful with their mouths.”

  For some reason, Isaak responded, “Very funny.”

  Hale grinned and hopped out of the carriage. He walked around the front and held out his hand to assist her down. This time she didn’t hesitate to put her hand in his. Her reticule caught in a splinter of wood and she stumbled.

  Hale caught her before she fell. “Are you all right?”

  Yancey stepped away from him and stood tall. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  He looked pointedly at her reticule stuffed full with his letters. “Are you carrying a brick in there?” He grinned mischievously. “Because if you are going to hit me over the head with it, the time is now.”

  She ducked her head. The new Yancey was grateful he felt comfortable enough to tease her, while the old Yancey took several breaths to gather her composure.

  Why did not loving him have to be so bewildering?

  Yancey peeled the ribbon away from her wrist and opened the drawstring purse. “These”—she pulled out the packet of letters—“are what I received from Antonia Archer. I’m giving them to you for two reasons. First, I want to prove that I too was deceived by her, and second, I want you to know that I have given you up. For good.”

  He took the letters with his left hand, then turned and offered her his right arm to escort her to her door.

  The word her father had whispered in her ear—forgiveness —came back to her. They’d had a long talk last night, and he’d encouraged her that part of forgiving Hale was owning up to how she’d contributed to his mistaken impression that she’d devised this trickery.

  Even if he didn’t accept it.

  His apology at her church had been perfunctory, something any gentleman would offer a person he’d wronged. Tonight began as a necessary evil in order to get back in her good graces—or at least to keep her on his campaign. She wasn’t ignorant of the Yancey effect, as Jakob had mockingly dubbed it years ago. People outright told her they wouldn’t support Hale’s campaign as a result of his insulting behavior toward her at the grand opening of The Import Co. At first, it felt good to rally people to her side—particularly as a balm for the other people who were still whispering about her. As the days wore on, she realized how detrimental her attitude was both to Hale and to the entire city.

  Jakob, her mother, and her father had all encouraged her to own up to how she’d contributed to the misunderstanding between her and Hale. Perhaps the reason she was having such difficulty moving forward into her new “era” was because she hadn’t owned up to her past.

  They climbed the last step to the porch. Yancey took her hand from his arm and turned to face him. “For many years, I acted in ways both selfish and immature. I’m sorry for that. Truly sorry.” Although she still believed he and Luanne would have been disastrous together. “From this day forward, you have nothing to fear from me. I will work on your campaign, I will support you for mayor, but I will never chase after you or make you the subject of my romantic silliness again.”

  Hale ducked his chin and ran his thumb across the edges of the letters. When he looked up at her, his face was as serious as she’d ever seen it. “I thank you for these”—he lifted the packet—“and for your apology. I was wrong to accuse you without hearing your side of the story.”

  He meant it. This was no perfunctory apology. It was as sincere as hers. Yancey pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling.

  “I would very much like for us to move forward in a spirit of cooperation.” He looked like he meant this, too. “Your ideas about the brunch and extended potluck dinner are excellent, even if I am dreading three hours of mingling.” The last was said with self-deprecating humor.

  She was proud of him—and grateful that he appreciated her ideas—but didn’t know how to say it without sounding like the infatuated fool she’d sworn never to be again. She stuck out her hand. “Good night, Hale.”

  He stared down at her extended hand.

  Was he going to refuse to shake it? Why had she put it out there in the first place? Men and women didn’t shake hands like business partners. Oh, gracious. She’d been a fool again. This time in an effort to be an improved version of herself.

  Just as she started to pull her hand back, he took it in his and squeezed. Warm tingles raced up her arm.

  Relief. That’s what it was. Because it c
ouldn’t be a reaction to his touch.

  She withdrew her hand and curtsied, which was what she should have done in the first place. “Good night. I look forward to helping your campaign.”

  Not him. His campaign. The distinction was important to her, even if he didn’t pick up on it.

  He bowed. “Good night. I hope we can continue to be on friendly terms going forward.”

  Not to be friends, but to be on friendly terms.

  So he had picked up on the distinction and was giving back his own.

  It was what she wanted ... which she told herself over and over as she walked into the house, relayed the evening’s events to her parents, and prepared for bed.

  But after blowing out the candle and pulling up the covers to her chin, the truth couldn’t be denied.

  She’d made peace with Hale Adams, turned him into a friendly acquaintance, and it hurt.

  * * *

  After dropping Isaak and Zoe at his parents’ house and returning the borrowed carriage to Windsor Buchanan, Hale walked back to his upstairs apartment with the letters. He opened his safe and set them inside, next to his letters from “Portia York.” He should burn both packets.

  He should.

  He should start a fire in his hearth, toss every page inside, and watch them burn as he sat in his reading chair.

  But not tonight. Not when he still had so many unanswered questions spinning inside his mind.

  Yancey Palmer puzzled him. At least this new one did. Before tonight, he knew exactly how to deal with her.

  Stay as far away as possible.

  Two things—no, three—told him his former approach was no longer possible.

  First, avoiding her would give the appearance that he’d rejected her apology, something no gentleman would ever do. If he prided himself on anything, it was being a gentleman through and through. His father had been a gentleman in name only. He excused his behavior by saying he couldn’t help falling in love with another woman and starting a second, illegitimate family. No true gentleman would even look at another woman. His father had gone one better—or worse—by becoming a bigamist. The betrayal cut too deep for words. Husbands were to love their wives and be loyal to them no matter what. Hale was determined to be everything his father was not—a faithful husband, a devoted father, and a true gentleman who not only spoke of things like integrity and fidelity but lived them.

  Second, he needed Yancey Palmer on his side. Had the last ten days not impressed that truth on him, the reactions of several people at Gibbon’s Steak House tonight would have. Malachi had bowed so low when he came to the table to ask if everything was to her satisfaction, his hair touched her hand. The woman was royalty in Helena, and more than just Malachi thought so. Six other couples had made a point to come to the table and speak with her, telling her all about their new kid goat or a baby’s first tooth or some other meaningful event in their lives. Miss Palmer didn’t just tolerate their interruptions, she shared their joy and participated in their story by peppering them with questions. Whatever sour looks they’d given him when they first approached the table were gone by the time she’d expressed her full support of his candidacy and dismissed their public argument as a misunderstanding between friends.

  And third, she genuinely had good ideas. Where he’d only known what he didn’t want—to be like Harold Kendrick with his Independence Day picnic—she’d offered a plan. He might not like all aspects of it, but he’d known at the outset that running for mayor was going to stretch his capacity to make small talk with strangers.

  He placed the letters side by side and closed the door to his safe. No matter how puzzling she was, one thing remained clear.

  He needed Yancey Palmer.

  Friday, June 1, 1888

  After a quick trip home to kiss his wife, take a bath, and change his dusty clothes from days on the road, Jonas headed straight to Hale’s office for a full accounting of the last three weeks. As usual, piles of books and folders lined the walls and sat atop the chairs opposite his desk. “You really must make your office a more inviting place if you expect to win people to your side.”

  Honestly, what was the point of having a carved mahogany desk, a full wall of bookshelves, a telephone—something very few offices had, no less an ornate cast-iron model—and a brand-new typewriter, if no one could see them for all the paperwork and books stacked everywhere?

  Hale peered over his wire-rimmed glasses. “I am willing to make many sacrifices for the sake of this campaign, but were I to change my habits altogether, people would become suspicious.”

  “Perhaps, but would it kill you”—Jonas hooked his cane over his arm, picked up the smaller stack on a chair, and set it atop the other—“to at least leave both chairs vacant for visitors?”

  Hale took his time considering the option, which Jonas would have found irritating beyond his patience were it not for the glint in the boy’s eye. “Try as I might, I can’t conceive of a scenario in which it would. I suppose I could make that sacrifice.”

  “How magnanimous of you.” Jonas attempted to match his nephew’s teasing but fell short. Weeks on the road performing his rounds as territorial judge had taken a toll on both his health and his peace of mind. He needed to be in Helena from now until November to ensure Hale’s election as mayor, but duty called. Jonas’s only legitimate source of income was his judgeship, which paid less than half what he needed. The counterfeit money was for bribes. He wouldn’t use it in town to pay his own bills, no matter how tempting. “I spoke briefly with Lily. She says Miss Palmer is firmly back in your camp. That you actually asked her to address you by your first name at dinner last week.”

  “It seemed prudent as everyone else was addressing me as Hale.” He replaced his pencil in a clay mug holding several others. “You asked me to make that girl like me. I believe I have fulfilled your requirement satisfactorily.”

  “Excellent.” Jonas paced across the small cleared space, tapping his cane along the floor with every other step. “I also hear there are plans for a special brunch and dinner for Independence Day, when you’ll be giving a speech outlining your mayoral agenda.”

  Hale put a fist over his mouth, but not before Jonas heard a chuckle.

  “Something amuses you?”

  “In point of fact, yes.” Hale directed a glance at the empty chair. “I fail to see why you cleared that seat if you are just going to pace back and forth. Also, it sounds like you’ve already had an accounting from Aunt Lily of what’s gone on during your absence, so I fail to understand why you need one from me.”

  Another time, Jonas might have found the same humor in Hale’s observation. Not today. “I’m worried about you. Kendrick is a snake. You know that better than anyone. I want to make sure you are taking him—and the threat he poses—seriously.”

  “What makes you think I am not?”

  Jonas stopped pacing to jab his index finger on a clear space of the desk. “I know Kendrick is cheating. I just can’t figure out how.” And it was robbing him of sleep.

  At least he was no longer worried about Madame Lestraude after her declaration of war. He had a plan for dealing with her. Her accountant—Mr. Green—had earned her trust over the years. Jonas knew a few of the woman’s secrets, but Green knew them all. How difficult could it be to bribe, manipulate, or uncover some scandal about a man who continued working at a brothel after prostitution became illegal? Once Green was convinced it was in his best interests to work with Jonas, neutralizing Madame Lestraude would be easy.

  “Uncle Jonas”—Hale’s voice drew him back to the problem at hand—“please sit down before you wear a tread on my floorboards. They are only pine, not sturdy oak.”

  Unused to being told what to do by any man, let alone one half his age, Jonas collapsed into the chair with a mock harrumph. “Happy?”

  “Quite so.”

  Jonas couldn’t help but grin. “All right. I admit I’m fussing worse than an old woman. Now, tell me what my wife hasn’t. Are you r
aising enough funds? Who has come out in support of you, and who is opposing? Have you scheduled any debates yet?”

  “Yes, enough people, and July 24.”

  “I am in no mood for cheeky humor, Hale.” Jonas glared over the messy desk.

  “With respect, sir, I am running for mayor, not you.”

  Despite the deference in both his words and tone of voice, a severe response—including the words “ungrateful whippersnapper” and “arrogant pup”—formed in Jonas’s mind.

  Hale took out his pocket watch and wound the stem. “Your schedule will keep you out of town for most of the time between now and the election. While I’m grateful for your wisdom and will act on any suggestions I deem sound, I do not need you to look over my shoulder at every turn.”

  Were it less important that he win, Jonas might have agreed, but the stakes were too high. He’d come to Montana Territory twenty-three years ago with the expressed intent of creating a name for himself on the national stage. He was now so close, his fingertips could brush those ambitions . . . but not close enough to grasp.

  The difference was two inches.

  One of those inches was getting Hale elected mayor. The other was unlimited funding. Jonas knew Montana politics. More votes were swayed with five-dollar bills than with five stellar ideas. For twenty years, he’d eschewed dirty politics, and look where it had gotten him. A political has-been who—were his clout too little to get his own nephew elected mayor—would be forgotten except by schoolchildren forced to research obscure facts about Montana before statehood.

  He couldn’t fail. Not again. He was fifty-six and didn’t have time to waste.

  Therefore, he would fight fire with fire. Kendrick had bribed his way into the mayor’s office, and Jonas meant to match the scalawag dollar for dollar. He’d once heard William Clark say no man could be bought who wasn’t first for sale. Jonas concurred. And men who could be bribed for five dollars deserved to get it in counterfeit money.

  At only twenty-eight, Hale was too young and idealistic to understand that it was useless to fight against the way the world worked. But if Jonas played his cards wrong, he’d end up sidelined from the campaign he’d orchestrated into existence.