The Telegraph Proposal

  So he started again. “My apologies, Hale. I’m treating this as my campaign instead of yours. Tell me how I can help.”

  * * *

  After his uncle left, Hale spent several hours buried in a complicated land dispute between Charles Cannon and J. P. Fisk. The two men had made a fortune buying land cheap, developing it, and then convincing the city council to expand Helena’s borders so they could sell it for triple their investment. Cannon had purchased a foreclosed property more than a year ago and submitted plans for developing it. That was when Fisk provided a bill of sale proving he had purchased the same land. Both had legitimate claims and were unwilling to sell to the other.

  Hired by Cannon, Hale was researching similar cases of dual claims filed under both territorial and state laws, looking for cases to support his client. His eyes were bleary by five in the evening. He checked his calendar. There were no client appointments on Monday until one in the afternoon. He penciled “Cannon v. Fisk” at the top of his list of things to accomplish.

  He heard his front door open and shut.

  He checked his watch and set his jaw. Why did people think two seconds before closing on a Friday evening was an appropriate time for an unscheduled appointment?

  His jaw loosened when Madame Lestraude sailed through the open double doors between his lobby and office. He stood—as a gentleman should—but before he could say he refused to represent brothel owners, she held up her hand.

  “Please hear me out, Mr. Adams. I promise I’m not here about my usual business.” He hesitated, which she apparently took for his consent because she sat down in the chair his uncle had recently cleared of files. “I wish to adopt a young man currently in my employ and make him my heir.”

  He sat down and shifted until his back was pressed against the leather. “Are you speaking of Nico, the boy who calls himself Zoe Gunderson’s brother?”

  “I am.” The pronouncement came with a regal nod more suitable to a queen than a brothel madam.

  Isaak and Zoe would probably wish to adopt Nico themselves. If so, they might ask him to be their lawyer. It was logical enough reasoning for Hale to say, “I’m afraid I can’t help you, ma’am.”

  “Why? Is adoption outside your normal practice? Are you incapable of growing beyond your current limits?”

  “Of course not,” he retorted, regretting the impulse to defend himself immediately.

  A sly smile lifted her rouged lips. “Excellent. Then please draw up the papers.” She stood. “I shall take up no more of your time.”

  Torn between relief and vexation at her abruptness—and feeling like a child’s toy rolling up and down on a string as he stood again after having just sat down—Hale walked her toward the door while searching for a polite way to deny her request.

  She paused at the junction of the waiting area and foyer. “Oh, and I may need your services to defend Nico against criminal charges.” She disappeared from view. In the space between opening the front door and closing it, she called, “Give your uncle my best.”

  Not his aunt and uncle, just his uncle. What did she mean by that?

  Hale flipped the lock behind her. No more intruders tonight, and he wasn’t sauntering around town for the sake of seeing and being seen. The madam’s visit put him in such a foul mood, he’d not be able to hold a smile without painting it on his face like a circus clown.

  What now? Try to get more work done or go upstairs and read a good book? He’d neglected his reading of late, and his brain balked at returning to more case law regarding dual property claims.

  And he certainly wasn’t about to start drawing up papers for Madame Lestraude to adopt Nico—who didn’t have a last name at the moment.

  Reading it was.

  Hale took off his glasses and climbed the stairs, rubbing the bridge of his nose to relieve the ache where the frame had dug into his skin. When he opened the door to his apartment, the first thing he saw—the blurry outline of it, at any rate—was his safe. He replaced his glasses and stared at the cast-iron box.

  Portia and Yancey. Yancey and Portia. Were there similarities between the two women beyond blond hair and a weekly commitment to a charitable cause?

  He needed to know the truth. He’d not rest until he researched the answer. He crossed to the safe, turned the dial to the proper numbers until the lock released, and swung open the heavy door. The two bundles of letters were on the top shelf. He pulled them out and sat down in his reading chair.

  After arranging them in chronological order according to the post-marked date on the envelopes, he opened the first one.

  A letter from him to her after reading the biographical information sent by the agency.

  He should reread that first.

  He leaned down to look inside his safe. The biography was folded in thirds and lying beneath a small velvet box holding a ring. The half-carat diamond was encircled by smaller diamonds set in platinum. He’d brought it with him from Buffalo, anticipating the day he’d slip it on the finger of his chosen wife. He pushed the box aside. How much longer would it languish on the shelf?

  He withdrew the biography and shut the safe door without turning the lock. He’d tossed every other biography sent to him, this one alone catching his eye.

  Why? After all the correspondence between them, he couldn’t remember which details were shared in them as opposed to her biography.

  He unfolded the paper and began to read.

  Miss Portia York, age twenty. She has blond hair and blue eyes, is of medium height and build. She comes from a happy home with two older siblings and faithfully attends church.

  “Comes from a happy home.” The phrase wedged in his lungs, as it had when he’d first read it. He’d come from a happy home, too. Or so he’d thought until he was eighteen when his father announced he could no longer live a double life.

  Hale wanted an honest-to-goodness happy home. Getting one increased dramatically if at least one of the partners in a marriage had experienced it. Because it wasn’t going to be him, it needed to be his bride. In fact, the major reason he’d been drawn to Luanne Palmer was the genuine faith, generosity, and familial loyalty displayed by the entire Palmer clan. Including—he sucked in a breath and blew it out through rounded lips—Yancey.

  One point of truth between her and the fictitious Portia.

  Hale continued reading the biography.

  Miss York enjoys many activities, including reading, charitable work, and community events.

  He’d been so thrilled by the happy family phrase, he’d jumped to the conclusion that Miss York shared his taste for poetry and serious literature. If Yancey Palmer enjoyed reading, she meant women’s magazines filled with lace, buttons, and hats. Or was he jumping to another conclusion without knowing all the facts?

  That seemed to be an issue between him and the lady.

  He didn’t have the same problem with anyone else—at least not that he was aware, although every man had his blind spots. He’d ask Mac. The county sheriff could be trusted to speak the truth.

  Hale adjusted his glasses and continued reading.

  Her desire to marry and have a family of her own stems from her own happy childhood. She believes love requires sacrifices, but that choosing someone who shares her goals, interests, and faith will mitigate the bumps and adjustments required when two people blend their hopes, dreams, and personalities.

  Was that true? It seemed too mature for the flighty Yancey Palmer. Maybe he was jumping to another conclusion, but his interactions with her said this was false. To be fair, she’d admitted to acting with romantic silliness where he was concerned.

  No point for or against the correlations between Portia and Yancey. He’d need to observe more before coming to a firm conclusion.

  Finally, Miss York wants her prospective groom to know that once her heart is given, she is fiercely loyal.

  Had the part about a happy family not sealed his interest, this last statement would have.

  Hale refolded the pape
r. If anything was true about her, it was her tenacity. He’d given her no encouragement over the past five years, yet she’d held on to him with ... well ... fierce loyalty.

  One point in favor of Miss Yancey Palmer.

  Maybe two.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday, June 28, 1888

  Yancey listened to Hale’s speech outlining his mayoral agenda with increasing discomfort. As he droned on and on, she looked around Mrs. Hollenbeck’s small parlor—so named because it was half the size of the large parlor. But what it lacked in size, it made up for in luxury. The honor of being included in this select group gathered in a room decorated with real gold leaf, mahogany-inlaid floors, and rich blue velvet to advise Hale was not lost on Yancey. What she was lost in was the legal jargon and myriad of details of his speech. Did anyone else realize he’d bore half the people to sleep and the other half to death?

  It was worse than when he’d answered questions the day he announced he’d taken Isaak’s place. At least then, Mrs. Hollenbeck had graciously cut him off at the earliest opportunity to summarize his points.

  Yancey checked the gilded clock over the marble fireplace. Eight forty-seven. Hale had been talking for over half an hour. She glanced at each occupant. Isaak Gunderson was rubbing the back of his neck. Mrs. Forsythe and Mrs. Hollenbeck had their heads together whispering about something. Judge Forsythe was nodding his head as though he agreed with everything his nephew was saying.

  “In conclusion,” Hale finally said, and then kept talking through another page. When he was actually done, he looked at each person in turn. “Well? What do you think?”

  Silence.

  If no one else was going to tell him, it was up to her. “It’s too long and too detailed.”

  Every eye turned to her. She thought she saw relief on Mrs. Hollenbeck’s face.

  “I agree,” Isaak said. “People are more interested in the overall picture than they are the fine details.”

  “But the details are how we get to the overall picture.” Hale slapped the back of his hand against the pages of his speech.

  All twelve of them. Yancey had counted. “What’s your vision for the future of Helena?”

  “My vision?” Hale swung his gaze to her, confusion in his eyes.

  “Yes. Your vision.” When the look on his face didn’t clear, she clarified, “Where do you see Helena four years from now?”

  “At the same longitude and latitude it is right now.”

  Was he serious? She looked for the familiar glint of humor and didn’t find it. “Not where as in where, but where as in how it’s different than it is today.”

  “How it’s better because of the policies you want to implement,” Isaak explained further.

  “But that’s what I just said.” Hale glanced at his speech. “Didn’t I?”

  “I think what Miss Palmer is saying”—Judge Forsythe was the only one in the room who still addressed her by her formal name—“is that perhaps you did it a little too well.”

  Bad choice of words. Over the course of the last few weeks working on Hale’s campaign, Yancey had discovered aspects of his character she’d overlooked by making him her knight in shining armor. But she wasn’t entirely wrong about him. If Hale prided himself on anything, it was doing things well. He wouldn’t understand the idea of doing anything too well. “People aren’t going to care as much about your competence as they will about your compassion.”

  Mrs. Forsythe nodded. “Yancey makes a good point. Everyone knows you’re an intelligent man. But what they need to know is that you share their concerns.”

  Hale sat on the blue velvet settee and placed his speech in the empty space beside him. “It’s no secret to anyone in this room that I have trouble connecting with people, particularly in large groups. Outside of this”—he tapped his index finger on the speech—“I have no idea how to share their concerns.”

  Yancey recalled Isaak’s insight that Hale was good with people as long as there were only four or five of them. How could she break his discomfort? “Large crowds are made up of individuals and small groups of people. Stop looking at the whole and start looking at its parts.”

  “Excellent advice, Miss Palmer.” Judge Forsythe wiped his palms together as though the matter was now closed and it was time to move the discussion along.

  But Hale still looked lost.

  Yancey stood. “Would you all come over here?” When everyone was gathered in a small circle, Yancey took Hale by the elbow and pulled him away from the group. “Tell me what you see.”

  “My family and friends.”

  “Good. Now imagine that the curtains are another group of people.”

  Hale tilted his head to stare down at her. “We have blue people in Helena now?”

  Not sure if he was trying to be humorous or if he really lacked the ability to imagine, Yancey chose to believe the former. “Very funny. Just play along for a moment. Do you care about those people—the blue ones—at this moment, or just about the four people in the group right in front of you?”

  “I understand what you’re demonstrating, but I don’t see how it helps me overcome needing to eventually talk to the blue people—none of whom I know. Outside of asking them the state of their wills and property, I don’t know what to say.”

  Yancey let go of his arm and took a step away. She tapped her bottom lip and thought through an idea. “I believe I have a solution, but it will take everyone’s cooperation.”

  “What are you getting us in to, Yance?” Isaak wasn’t the only one with skepticism turning down the corners of his mouth. Judge Forsythe and Hale wore identical frowns.

  “It’s nothing bad, I promise you.” Yancey placed a hand over her heart as part of her vow.

  Hale let out a snort. “I’ve heard that before.”

  Something in his tone of voice made her think she’d been the one to promise such a thing, but she couldn’t remember when. There was nothing she could do about the past now, so she might as well plow ahead. “I suggest that throughout the course of both the brunch and evening events, we”—she swirled her hand to indicate Isaak, Mrs. Hollenbeck, Judge and Mrs. Forsythe, and herself—“take turns escorting Hale. Among the five of us, I daresay we know everyone who will be at both events. That way Hale will know at least one person as he wanders from group to group. We can start discussing something we know concerns that particular group of people, then, once the conversational ball is rolling, Hale can participate.” She turned her attention to him. “It wouldn’t be any different than a new client coming to your office. You simply listen and respond to what concerns them.”

  Hale rubbed his index finger along the indentation above his chin. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Yancey chuckled. “Thank you for that ringing endorsement.”

  “But it doesn’t fix the problem of my speech.” Hale pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve spent the last five days working on it every night. I don’t think I have the perspective to cut any of it.”

  “We can help with that.” Isaak took four long strides and picked up the pages.

  “Are you planning on tossing the entire thing in the waste bin?” Hale’s question was a combination of teasing and dismay.

  “The thought crossed my mind.” It was hard to tell if Isaak was being funny or serious. “We can cut at least two or three pages.”

  “No.” Yancey shook her head. “The entire speech needs to be no more than three pages.”

  Hale’s mouth fell open. Isaak jerked his attention from the speech to her so fast, he winced. Mrs. Hollenbeck was covering her mouth, a distinct twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Forsythe walked to Hale’s side and patted his shoulder blade.

  The look on Judge Forsythe’s face was unreadable.

  Yancey continued to gauge their reactions as she explained further. “I’m serious. Harold Kendrick has one good quality—he knows how to make a speech. They are funny and short. Emphasis on short.”

  Judge Forsythe continued sta
ring. Then he smiled and nodded to her. “We may despise everything Harold Kendrick stands for, but we’d be foolish to underestimate how he captures a crowd.”

  Hale waved his hand. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but while I can keep my comments brief, I’m not funny. Not in a big crowd. I can be witty if I’ve taken time to think about a retort beforehand, but . . .” He shook his head. “I’m afraid funny is beyond my abilities.”

  “But what you are good at is clarity.” Yancey turned her focus on Hale. “Last year, when Mayor Kendrick gave his speech, he was so vague no one understood what he intended to do.”

  “Because he’s never actually done anything,” Isaak called from across the room.

  “Except line his own pockets,” Judge Forsythe added.

  “Which brings me back to my point.” Yancey lifted three fingers in the air and wagged them at Hale. “You need to come up with three things—just three—you plan to do when you’re elected mayor. Don’t just state it. Paint a picture with words.”

  Hale stared at her, his gaze intense. A slow grin lifted his lips. “‘Paint a picture with words.’ I can do that.”

  Her stomach fluttered.

  She pressed her hands against it to squash the butterflies. His smile meant nothing ... or very little. He was simply complimenting her idea the same way he’d done at the restaurant.

  And yet, her stomach fluttered again.

  * * *

  “New carriage?” Hale climbed into the front seat beside Isaak.

  The meeting at Mrs. Hollenbeck’s house had ended later than anticipated, most of it spent working on culling Hale’s speech from twelve pages to three. In the end, he was happy with it, but he’d be home after ten if he walked rather than accept the offered ride.

  “New horses, too.” Isaak slapped the reins, setting the grays in motion. “Married men need carriages. Speaking of married, be careful or you’re going to unravel Yancey’s promise that she won’t chase you.”