The Telegraph Proposal

  Too tired to come up with a witty retort, Hale remained quiet. The subject of Yancey Palmer was not up for discussion.

  But Isaak didn’t take the hint. “You realize she’s still in love with you, don’t you?”

  Hale drew his jacket closer together. The day had been warm, but the evening air had a bite to it. “No, she isn’t.”

  “And”—Isaak continued as though Hale hadn’t spoken—“if you keep smiling at her like you did tonight, you’ll have only yourself to blame if she starts chasing after you again.”

  “Did you and Zoe know that Madame Lestraude wants to make Nico her heir before Mrs. Hollenbeck mentioned it tonight?” Hale turned the conversation to safer ground. His feelings toward Yancey were undergoing a shift. She’d been a thorn in his side for so long, he’d never considered her as anything else. After a month of working with her, he was beginning to understand why Uncle Jonas called her a natural campaigner. And her suggestions about viewing a crowd as nothing more than small groups of people who all just happened to be in close proximity and using words to paint a picture were nothing short of brilliant.

  So he’d smiled at her to say, Great idea. Nothing improper in that.

  “Don’t want to talk about Yancey?” Isaak turned the team to the left. “Then I’ll talk about Nico. Yes, we knew.”

  “And you aren’t going to fight it?”

  Isaak didn’t answer. They rolled past mansions built by lucky miners, tradesmen who’d made a fortune buying and selling equipment to them and to less fortunate miners, and bankers who’d profited off all of them. Hale was about to repeat his question when Isaak finally spoke. “A few months ago, I would have fought it with everything I had in me. I thought it was my job to make sure everything was done right and done on time.” He chuckled. “Yancey called me benevolently arrogant.”

  An apt description, though Hale wasn’t about to add fuel to Isaak’s fire by agreeing with anything Yancey Palmer had said.

  “Nico is fifteen now,” Isaak continued, “and has been living on the streets most of his life. For reasons known only to him, he’s created his own family, with Zoe as his sister, me as his sister’s husband—which is still a somewhat tenuous bond, given how badly Jakob and I embarrassed her—and Madame Lestraude as his mother. If I’m going to keep a relationship with him, I have to respect his choices.”

  Even if he thought them wrong was left unsaid, but Hale understood the logic—had argued the same with Mac over the years, in point of fact. However, he wanted no part of it if for no other reason than the high-handed way Madame Lestraude had twisted his words trying to manipulate him into helping her. “Does Mac know?”

  “He does, and to answer your next question, he’s relieved that he won’t have to turn down his mother’s money. He’s more than happy to see every penny of it go to Nico.” Isaak turned onto Sixth Street.

  Hale turned his head to better view Isaak. “Do you know anything about Nico needing a criminal defense? Madame Lestraude mentioned it when she was in my office a month ago, but I’ve heard nothing since.”

  “That’s all cleared up.” Isaak steered around a particularly deep hole in the middle of the street. “Nico was responsible for the vandalism at The Import Company right before it opened.”

  He was? “Are you pressing charges?”

  “No.” Isaak shook his head. “As soon as we returned to Helena, he made a full confession. As a result, Pa decided against pressing charges.”

  “Seems strange she would ask me to defend him against something so trivial.”

  Isaak didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Perhaps she was afraid he might be blamed for the fire at The Resale Company. He didn’t set it, in case you were wondering.”

  “Are you sure?” Because it was better him than the other option.

  “Nico and I grew quite close on our little elopement trip. I asked him about the fire, and he swore he had nothing to do with it. I believe him.” The last was said with a hard look toward Hale.

  “I was actually wishing he had.”

  Isaak shifted on the seat a bit to look Hale directly in the eye. “Kendrick?”

  Hale nodded. “Which only makes sense if he thought he couldn’t beat you.”

  “If Kendrick can beat Uncle Jonas, he wouldn’t be intimidated by the likes of me.” Isaak returned his attention to the horses.

  “Or me.”

  Isaak shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. You have a degree from Harvard and have helped some very wealthy men with business deals that have made them even wealthier.”

  Hale took a slow breath in and blew it out through rounded lips. “All of which leads to one conclusion. Kendrick most likely didn’t set the fire.”

  “Makes me wonder who did.”

  “And why.”

  Isaak slowed the team to let a wagon piled with crates, barrels, and burlap bags pass. “At least we have the insurance Uncle Jonas talked Pa into last year.”

  Madame Lestraude’s farewell—Give your uncle my best—repeated inside Hale’s mind. “Do you think there’s something going on between Madame Lestraude and Uncle Jonas?”

  Isaak jerked the reins, drawing the carriage to an abrupt stop. “What? No.”

  “I didn’t mean that he’s a . . . client.” The word tasted like a green apple plucked too soon from the tree because—although he was ninety-eight percent sure his uncle wouldn’t cheat on his wife—the remaining two percent was gnawing at him.

  Isaak looked behind them, then down both sides of the street before focusing on Hale. “Then what did you mean?”

  Hale recounted the madam’s parting shot. “It’s been bothering me ever since she said it. There’s something behind it. I just can’t figure out what.”

  Isaak checked the street again before setting the team in motion. “The woman has many mysteries surrounding her. Might be better to leave well enough alone.”

  Not advice Hale expected Isaak to give, but perhaps it was more evidence of change due to married life. As he appeared to want the subject dropped, Hale complied by asking if Zoe had settled on a menu for the brunch. The remainder of the ride home was filled with descriptions of food, which made Hale’s stomach pinch with longing despite the healthy dinner he’d enjoyed.

  They reached his office. Isaak pulled the team to a stop to let Hale out.

  “Thank you for bringing me home.” Hale retrieved his leather satchel from under the seat.

  Isaak dipped his chin. “Before you go, I need to say something.”

  Hale’s fingers tightened on the ivory handle.

  “I’m serious about you being careful with Yancey.”

  “Miss Palmer is an asset to the campaign.” Hale used her formal address on purpose. “Would you have me dismiss her ideas with scorn?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  Isaak looked toward the sky as though waiting for the myriad of stars to tell him the answer. “Never mind. I’ll see you on Wednesday morning at the brunch. Good night.”

  The carriage pulled away, so Hale’s “Good night” was spoken over the crunch of wagon wheels. Isaak lifted a hand to acknowledge he’d heard it, so Hale didn’t bother repeating himself. He fished the key from his vest pocket, slipped it into the lock, and opened the door.

  Fatigue accompanied him up the stairs. Although he was pleased with the outcome of the meeting and his revised speech, the constant dissection of his failings both in public gatherings and in his writing had taken a toll on him.

  Yet, when he set his glasses on the small table beside his bed and slipped under the covers, sleep eluded him.

  If Yancey Palmer was confused, she wasn’t alone. Tonight, when she’d taken him by the elbow and drawn him away from the rest of the people in the small parlor, he’d felt ... comfortable. As if they were old friends instead of old combatants. He’d started to see her as Portia. The illusion was so strong, he’d smiled at her with genuine pleasure—and w
as taken to task over it.

  Hale threw off the covers and grabbed his glasses on the way out the door. No embers burned in the fireplace because the weather was too hot, and the moon wasn’t bright enough for him to sit in one of the rocking chairs on his balcony to read. He huffed and returned to his bedroom to light the hurricane lamp on the nightstand. If he were thinking straight, he’d have picked it up when he grabbed his glasses, but that was his whole problem. He couldn’t think.

  He marched back to the living room, muttering instructions to himself to stop acting like a fool. A minute later, he lifted the packet of letters from his safe. He needed this business of Portia vs. Yancey settled once and for all. If he found even the smallest lie in what Antonia Archer had done to obscure his identity, he could dismiss everything she’d written as Portia.

  He placed the packet at his feet and lifted the first letter, the one he’d written to her after reading her biography. Other than the typewritten font, some misspelled words, and a few missing commas, everything was as he remembered writing it. He started a pile to the left of his chair and reached for the second letter, this one Portia’s—Yancey’s—answer. It was similar in content—a list of basic facts about her life. Everything was true, including that she worked in her father’s business, although there were no specific names of people or places.

  He set her letter atop his first one on his left and reached for the next letter on his right. The clock on his fireplace mantel was chiming two in the morning when he finished reading. Miss Archer had spoken the truth, at least with regard to his letters. He’d written that he owned his own law office in Helena, Montana. She’d written that he owned his own business in Denver, Colorado. Where Portia’s letters spoke of working with a ladies’ charitable group, Hale suspected Yancey had written the Ladies’ Aid Society.

  He closed his eyes, weariness so deep he felt it in his bones. His concern wasn’t whether Miss Archer had changed names or proper nouns, it was whether she’d misrepresented Portia’s personality and future hopes. Reading her letters again revived the longing—the one he thought he’d finally filled—for a home and family of his own.

  He’d be a good husband and father. He’d make sure of it. He just needed someone he could trust with his heart.

  He shuffled the letters into an orderly stack and replaced them in the safe. Tonight wasn’t a good time to be adding more to his worries. He had a speech to make in three days in front of what was sure to be more people than he’d ever spoken to in one place at one time in his life.

  He returned to his bedroom, where he knelt and prayed until he had poured out every concern at his Father’s feet. When he climbed under the brown bedspread, he soon fell asleep, where he dreamed of an outdoor wedding attended by thousands. His bride wore a heavy veil, but he was sure it was the woman of his dreams. He said his vows, the preacher pronounced them man and wife, he lifted the veil, and a hag with black hair and rotting teeth cackled, “I fooled you!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday, June 29, 1888

  “So?” Carline asked as she breezed through the doors to the telegraph office. “How did last night go?”

  Yancey stood on her tiptoes, leaning across the counter to see if anyone was following behind her friend. Business followed a predictable pattern of crazy whenever a train was docked, with huge lulls in between. This was one of the slow times, but she wasn’t taking any chances. “Close the doors behind you so we won’t be interrupted.”

  Carline swung around, the skirt of her blue-check dress billowing in her self-made breeze. “That well, huh?”

  Yancey waited until she heard the doors click shut before answering. “Yes. It went even better than I hoped.” She stepped out from behind the counter so the two of them could sit on one of the three benches placed beneath the windows overlooking the platform. Once Carline was seated, Yancey launched into a detailed description of the previous evening. “At one point, Hale smiled at me, and it wasn’t one of those”—she fisted her hands as if she was holding the lapels of a man’s jacket and lowered the timbre of her voice—“‘you annoy me, but I’m smiling to be polite’ things or ‘I guess you aren’t quite as annoying as I previously thought’ things. It was an honest-to-goodness, ‘that was an excellent idea’ without ‘which I find so odd you should be insulted’ added at the end.”

  Carline pressed her fingertips against her lips.

  “I know.” Yancey dropped her hands into her lap. “I couldn’t believe it either and—I’m not going to lie—it made my stomach flutter.”

  “But . . .” Carline spoke through her fingers.

  Yancey smiled so wide, her cheeks protested. “I didn’t fall into a fit or throw myself at him. I was very calm and mature, if I do say so myself.”

  Carline clapped her hands. “I knew you could do it.”

  “I wasn’t so sure because . . .” Yancey shifted on the seat to better see her friend. “I think a part of me will always love him, but I’m learning to keep his smiles and compliments in proper perspective.”

  “Good for you, Yancey.”

  She grinned at the praise. “What’s happening with you? Has your uncle left town yet?”

  “Finally.”

  “And?” Yancey prompted.

  Carline’s smile answered. “Papa told him that he wanted me to stay home for at least one more year because . . .” Her eyes began to twinkle.

  “Well? Go on.”

  Carline’s smile was full of good news. “Isaak Gunderson asked me to start working regularly at The Import Company because ... Emilia McCall is with child.”

  Yancey clapped her hands with joy. “Oh, that’s wonderful news. And I’m so glad you’re staying. At least for now.”

  Carline sobered. “I want you to know that I thought long and hard about whether I’d be wise to go to finishing school back East. I decided to ask Mrs. Hollenbeck to teach me how to handle wealth.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I haven’t asked her yet. I was planning on approaching her at the Independence Day celebration.” Carline plucked at the lace on her cuff. “Do you think she’ll find me impertinent?”

  “I sincerely doubt it.” Yancey didn’t mention that Mrs. Hollenbeck had asked after Carline last night. The widow had a matchmaking streak, and she was asking if Carline had a beau. The matter of Windsor Buchanan was a close secret between Carline and Yancey, so she’d kept silent, but she wondered how—and why—Mrs. Hollenbeck was asking. Which prompted Yancey to ask, “Did your decision to stay in Helena have anything to do with a certain bladesmith?”

  Pink filled Carline’s cheeks. “A little.” She glanced down at her lap and cleared her throat. “I had a long talk with my mother last night after Uncle Eugene left. I finally told her I thought about Mr. Buchanan . . . a lot.”

  “What did she say?”

  Carline shook her head, a slow smile dawning. “Mama asked me why it took me so long to tell her.”

  Yancey broke into peals of laughter. “I told you. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Yes, now let me finish.”

  Thus chastised, Yancey bit her bottom lip.

  Carline shifted on the seat, pulling her hand from Yancey’s grip. “Mother said that you and I were opposite sides of the same coin—you too obvious in your romantic infatuation with Hale Adams and me too coy regarding Windsor Buchanan.”

  Yancey’s jaw loosened. “She actually said that?”

  Carline nodded. “Mother said no man is brave enough to approach a woman without having received some indication of her interest. To cover my attraction to him, I’ve always treated Windsor the same way I have Geddes. I’ve been too coy.”

  “That’s true.” Yancey thought back to the play at Ming’s Opera House, where, in an effort to get Windsor and Carline to sit together—without Windsor realizing that was the plan—they’d swapped chairs several times until Zoe put a stop to it. “So what are you going to do?”

  Another blush pinked Carline’s cheeks.
“I was hoping to ask you for advice.”

  “Me?” Yancey pressed her fingertips to her sternum. “I’m the last person you should ask.”

  Carline shook her head. “I don’t think so. We’re almost twenty-one now. Between the two of us, we should have enough maturity to figure out the proper way to go about letting a man know we’re interested in his attentions.”

  “And, if not, we probably aren’t ready to leave childhood behind and step into the roles of wives and mothers.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  Yancey pulled Carline into a sideways hug. “Oh, how I cherish you. I’m so glad you aren’t leaving town.”

  “I second that.” Carline squeezed Yancey’s waist. “Let’s pray we both find husbands and raise babies here in Helena.”

  “Oh Lord, hear our prayer,” Yancey supplied the rest of the special way she and Carline expressed their hopes and dreams for the future.

  As though it had waited for the conversation to end, the telegraph machine began to tap. Yancey jumped up, counting dots and dashes and converting them to letters inside her head as she hurried back behind the counter. She sat down, picked up the pen, and acknowledged Carline’s wave goodbye by nodding once as she scratched out the message.

  Yancey finished translating and reached out to replace the pen. A paper calendar sat partially hidden under the wooden tray holding the inkpot and pen holder.

  I shall have to mark today in the calendar, she’d once heard Isaak say when Jakob did something surprising.

  Doing something significant also counted.

  Before she changed her mind, Yancey drew a tiny star on June 29, 1888, the day she truly put Hale Adams behind her.

  July 4, 1888

  Hale licked his lips. The salt from his sweat made his dry mouth long for another glass of lemonade. He’d already drained two and the brunch hadn’t even started yet.