Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs]

by A Matter of Character

  Dedrik Finster shook his head again. “Nein. No Morgans.” His eyebrows lifted. “Maybe you look for Morgan McKinley?”

  “Morgan McKinley?” It didn’t seem likely. His source in New York hadn’t mentioned that D. B. Morgan was an assumed name. Of course, if Joshua wrote that tripe, he would use a pseudonym as well. “Perhaps that is who I mean. Could you tell me where he can be found?”

  “Ja.” The postmaster came around from behind the counter and walked toward the door, motioning for Joshua to follow him outside. Once there he walked to the corner, turned north, and pointed toward the hillside. “There, you see gray house. Ja?”

  “I see it.”

  “That is McKinley home.”

  “And might I inquire if Miss Daphne McKinley is any relation to Morgan McKinley?”

  “Ja. His sister.”

  Joshua almost asked if Daphne lived with her brother but stopped himself. The attractive young woman with the big brown eyes had nothing to do with the matter. He offered his hand once again. “You’ve been most helpful, Mr. Finster. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Once the postmaster had gone back inside, Joshua looked again at the house on the hillside. It was a stately two-story brick-and-timber structure, painted two shades of gray, with an attic and numerous windows. A wide piazza wrapped around at least two sides of the house, and tall, mature trees cast shadows across its many-angled roof. A residence that bespoke an owner of some importance in the town.

  Before he tried to meet Mr. McKinley, it might be wise to learn more about him. Joshua would prolong his investigation for another day or two. Surely this time the newspaper archives would turn up the information he needed.

  December 23, 1871

  I am a married man of two weeks. I thank God for allowing me this happiness. I do not deserve a bit of it.

  Annie and I returned yesterday from a brief honeymoon in New Orleans, and we have settled into our new residence in St. Louis. My wife is busy turning the house into a home and making plans for our first Christmas together. We have a small household staff to help her, including a cook whose ability has already impressed me. I fear I’ll soon be fat and useless if she always feeds us so well.

  And now to continue the record of my life.

  It was the summer of 1835 when I left the farm and my surviving two brothers. Over the years that followed, I Lived and worked in Louisiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, Indiana, and Illinois. I swept out saloons and I slopped hogs and I chopped down trees and I even spent a few months working a steamboat on the Mississippi River. I did just about anything I could do to put food in my belly. I stole when I had to, and it’s a wonder I never got caught and thrown into jail.

  The western migration had started by that time, men looking for land they could own and farm, a place where they could raise their families. I had no yearning to be a farmer. I’d seen enough of that life when my parents were still alive. But there were other stories I heard about the West that made me decide to strike out in that direction.

  That’s how I found myself working a wagon train the year I was twenty-four. That was in 1845. By that time, I was good with horses and with a rifle. Still wet behind the ears in many ways, but tough and not afraid to try something new. That must have been why Gus, the wagon master, decided to give me a chance. My main job was to drive the livestock that wasn’t being ridden or yoked to a wagon. It was hot, dusty work, but that couldn’t dampen my excitement as we followed the Oregon Trail across the vast, mostly uninhabited country that separated Missouri from the Pacific Ocean.

  I will never forget the first time I saw a herd of buffalo in the distance. So many it looked as if the land itself was rising and falling like the sea. Who would have thought men would kill so many of the great beasts from that day to this? God forgive me, I slaughtered more than my share of them for their skins alone.

  I did make it all the way to the Oregon Territory by the end of the summer of 1845. Even went on over to the rugged coast and stuck my feet in the cold waters of the Pacific. During the trip out, I’d decided I might just stick with Gus and make a living bringing immigrants to Oregon or California. But it turned out that I wouldn’t make it back to Missouri again for another quarter century. Once I’d seen the mountains of the West, there wasn’t any thought of going back.

  For the next few years, I lived the life of a mountain man. Probably would have frozen to death in a snowy pass that first winter if I hadn’t been befriended by a grizzled old man called Bearcat by friend and foe alike. If he had another name, one his mother gave him, I never heard it, and even so, I doubt he would have remembered it. Bearcat taught me a lot about surviving off the land. And once he moved on, I got used to the silence, the kind that says you’re the only human being within five hundred miles in any direction.

  I was living in a one-room log cabin that I built myself in what is now Idaho Territory when I met a Frenchman, Picard, and his daughter. The girl wasn’t pretty in the conventional sense, but that didn’t matter to me. I wanted her. Not as a wife, mind you. Not forever. Just a woman to ease a man’s desire. And so I took her to live with me. Her father seemed glad to have her off his hands, and she didn’t seem to mind staying with me.

  I seem to recall feeling a twinge of guilt the first time I took her to my bed. It was as if my saintly mother was looking down from heaven and shaking her head in despair over her lost son. But since I didn’t believe in heaven or hell and my mother was long dead, I didn’t let the feeling linger for long.

  The girl’s name was Gemma. Gemma Picard. She was eighteen and soft in all the right places and had dark hair that, when it was unbound, fell past her plump bottom. She spoke only a little English and I spoke no French at all in the beginning. That was okay. I didn’t take her in for the conversation. For close to a year, she kept the small cabin we lived in clean and tidy as was possible, cooked our meals, and kept my bed warm at night.

  Then I heard about the gold strike in California. I put my earthly belongings onto a packhorse, saddled up my gelding, and rode away without a backward glance. I don’t think I gave Gemma a second thought. Not for many, many years.

  Did she love me? Did she want to be my wife? Did she consider us married even without some words spoken over us? What happened to her after I left? I guess I assumed she would reconnect with her father, but for all I knew some wild thing could have killed her.

  May God forgive me.

  FOUR

  A cold wind whistled its way through Bethlehem Springs that Sun-day morning. Daphne had to place a hand onto the crown of her hat to keep it from being blown away as she walked toward All Saints Presbyterian—accompanied by the sound of crisp leaves cartwheeling toward her—and even her best woolen coat couldn’t stop gooseflesh from rising on her arms and legs.

  Winter was coming to the mountains of Idaho. The glorious Indian summer had ended for another year. Daphne hoped it wouldn’t be a harsh winter. As beautiful as it could be, heavy snows severely curtailed her ability to get about. Her automobile had to remain parked in the shed behind her house, and she became dependent upon the use of Morgan’s horses and sleigh.

  The wind pushed against her as she hurried along Wallula Street. She leaned into it, eyes on the sidewalk only a few paces before her. It wasn’t a long walk to the church, but it seemed so this morning. She was grateful when she reached the steps leading to the church entrance.

  She paused and glanced around as her right foot landed on the first step. No fellow worshipers lingered outside on this bitter morning as they often did when the weather was pleasant. She hurried to join them inside.

  Before the door was closed again, she heard her brother’s voice. “And here she is.” She looked up, feeling windblown and unkempt.

  Morgan grinned as he came over to help her out of her coat. “How are you this morning, dear sister?” He dropped a kiss on her cheek.

  “Cold. And you?”

  “The same. You should have called me to come for you in my a
utomobile.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s a short walk.” She looked behind him. “Where are Gwen and the children?”

  “Andy was ill in the night, so Gwen stayed at home to care for him.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought he seemed lethargic yesterday when he got up from his nap. So unlike him. It isn’t influenza, is it?” The idea struck fear in her heart.

  “The doctor says not. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be at church myself.” Morgan offered her his arm. “Shall we go in?”

  With a nod, Daphne slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they walked together into the sanctuary, headed for what had become the McKinley family pew, third row, left side of the aisle. Brother and sister paused several times to speak words of greeting to various friends in the congregation. It wasn’t until they were nearly to their pew that Daphne saw Joshua Crawford seated directly across the aisle—and he was looking over his shoulder. Right at her. Her heart made a strange little skittering motion in her chest. Those eyes of his. They were most disconcerting.

  For a moment, she considered sliding into her pew without speaking to him. But that would be rude. Unforgivable. She stopped, drawing Morgan to a halt alongside of her. From the corner of her eye, she saw her brother looking at her, but she spoke first to Joshua.

  “Good morning, Mr. Crawford. Welcome to All Saints.”

  He stood. “Thank you, Miss McKinley. It’s good to be here.”

  “May I introduce my brother, Morgan?” She looked at her brother. “Morgan, this is Joshua Crawford, the new editor of the Herald.”

  The two men shook hands while Morgan said, “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I was glad to hear we’ll soon have another edition of the paper.”

  Joshua nodded. “Tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact.”

  The door to the small antechamber behind the altar area opened, revealing Reverend Rawlings in his black robes. Morgan must have seen him, too, for he gave a quick nod of acknowledgment to Joshua an instant before showing Daphne into their pew.

  Joshua was normally more attentive during a Sunday worship service. But today his thoughts were often on the man and woman seated to his left across the aisle. They were a handsome pair. No doubt about it. And although Morgan McKinley was tall and Daphne McKinley petite, the family resemblance was unmistakable, from the tone of their skin to the jet black hair and dark brown eyes. Both had a certain bearing that declared them people of good fortune and society.

  Good fortune was a gross understatement. It hadn’t taken much researching in the Herald archives for Joshua to learn that Morgan and his sister inherited great wealth from their parents, and Morgan’s business acumen had increased his monetary worth even more. What Joshua couldn’t understand was why they both had chosen to live in Bethlehem Springs, of all places. Competent managers could be hired to run the New Hope Health Spa, and Morgan and his family could live anywhere else in the world that they pleased. New York. London. Paris. Athens. The Orient.

  Joshua wasn’t the type of man to covet, but it was hard not to envy people like the McKinleys. To travel abroad, to see the wonders of the world, to come to understand other cultures, to taste the foods of many nations, to broaden ones vision. But God had not chosen to give him such experiences, and he would do well to remember all he had to be thankful for.

  With that mental chastisement, he focused his attention on Reverend Rawlings.

  At the close of the service, Joshua rose and stepped into the aisle. It was impossible not to look toward Morgan and Daphne as they did the same. And when the men’s gazes met, Morgan said, “Mr. Crawford, I wonder if you might join the family for dinner one evening this week. I would ask you to dine with us today, but out little boy is ill and I wouldn’t want to surprise my wife with an unexpected guest on top of that. Perhaps Wednesday evening would be convenient for you?”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Joshua couldn’t believe his good fortune. Here he was, wanting to get to know Morgan McKinley, wanting to discover if he could be D. B. Morgan, and the opportunity had been dropped into his lap without him doing a thing.

  “Not at all,” Morgan said. “I remember what it’s like to be a bachelor cooking for myself.”

  It took great resolve for Joshua not to show his surprise. When did a wealthy man have to cook for himself?

  Morgan glanced at his sister, then back at Joshua. “Shall we say Wednesday at seven?”

  “Thank you. Yes. I’d be delighted to join you and Mrs. McKinley for dinner.”

  “Wonderful. I look forward to it.”

  Joshua hung back and waited for Morgan to escort his sister toward the narthex. Then he followed at a slower pace, giving friendly nods to people he had yet to meet. If he’d planned to remain in Bethlehem Springs for an extended period of time, he would have made more of an effort to introduce himself. But he didn’t plan to stay. Not any longer than necessary.

  The outside temperature hadn’t warmed up during the service, and it made him glad that his living quarters were catty-corner from the church. He hunched his shoulders, leaned into the wind, and dashed across the street and up the outside staircase.

  Daphne looked at the family gathered around the table in her brother’s dining room and thought how blessed she was to be one of them. Too often in her life she’d felt alone and on the outside. Morgan was ten years her senior, and before she turned six, he’d been sent to boarding school, followed by college and then time abroad. Their father had died when she was sixteen, and soon after, their mother’s illness had taken Morgan and Danielle McKinley to England and the Continent, to any place that offered some relief for the pain she suffered, while Daphne had remained in America to finish her schooling.

  It hadn’t been until Morgan moved to Bethlehem Springs—three years after their mother’s death—that he and Daphne became close as brother and sister. His marriage to Gwen had made the circle of loved ones even wider.

  Griff Arlington had become Daphne’s surrogate father. The grizzled cattleman had a strong faith and a heart as wide as the western sky. Griff’s daughters, Gwen and Cleo, had become the sisters Daphne never had. She admired them because of their courage to be true to themselves, to follow God and the path He set before them. And finally there was Woody Statham, Cleo’s husband of two years. Who would have thought the wounded Brit, the fourth son of a duke, would fit so well into this American family? But he did, and now Daphne considered him a brother too.

  “What do you think, Daphne?” Morgan’s question brought her attention back to the Sunday dinner conversation.

  “About what?”

  “About the newspaper. Will it thrive under Mr. Crawford’s guidance?”

  “I have no idea. Mrs. Patterson must think so or she wouldn’t have hired him.”

  Griff said, “I guess we’ll have some idea tomorrow when the first edition of the Triweekly Herald is available.”

  “I invited Mr. Crawford to dine with us on Wednesday evening,” Morgan said. “You’re all welcome if you choose to come.”

  Woody exchanged a glance with Cleo, then shook his head. “The way my leg feels right now, I believe there is a good chance we shall see colder weather before Wednesday. Perhaps even snow. You had better not count on us.”

  Morgan looked at Daphne. “But you’ll come. Right?”

  “I never turn down one of Mrs. Nelson’s delicious meals if I can keep from it.” Daphne turned toward Gwen. “You really are fortunate to have such a wonderful woman in your kitchen. If I had a larger home, I would try to steal her away from you.”

  Gwen laughed softly. “I don’t believe you’d succeed, Daphne, dear. Mrs. Nelson is too fond of our children to ever leave us.”

  With that, the conversation turned naturally to the youngest McKinleys, to Andy’s sniffles and the words he was adding to his vocabulary and to Ellie’s desire to be walked and rocked before going to sleep at night.

  Yes, indeed. Daphne was blessed
to be part of this family circle, and she said a silent thanks to God for making it so.

  FIVE

  Alone in the office, Joshua leaned back in the desk chair and stared at the front page of the Triweekly Herald’s Wednesday edition. He was proud of what he’d managed to accomplish in just seven days. And if the comments he’d received from townsfolk meant anything, the citizens of Bethlehem Springs were pleased with his efforts as well.

  For Monday’s edition, his editorial had been focused on himself. He’d tried to allow readers to know him in a small way, to feel comfortable with him. He expected to be compared to Nathan Patterson, an old friend to many. If he shared about his background and training, he hoped they would grow to accept him into their midst. Belonging was an important asset for an editor of a smalltown paper.

  Today’s editorial was different. He’d written about the importance of staying informed, whether one lived in a large city or in a small town, and he’d given his pledge to bring the readers of the Herald the most up-to-date news about world, national, state, and local happenings. He hoped he could keep that pledge during his brief tenure with the newspaper.

  His thoughts moved to the evening ahead. Tonight he would dine with Morgan McKinley and his family. With any luck, he would know without a doubt by the evening’s end whether or not Mr. McKinley was the infamous D. B. Morgan.

  Infamous, indeed.

  It didn’t matter to Joshua that the writer had maligned his grandfather’s good name in fiction. People tended to believe what appeared in print. Even words that came between the covers of a novel.

  He folded the newspaper in half, then in half again, before placing it on his desk. It was unlikely he would find the answers he needed tonight. Morgan didn’t strike him as the sort of man to write melodramatic drivel.

  Joshua’s jaw clenched. He hated that Richard Terrell, the grandfather he’d so admired, had been turned into a one-dimensional cliché named Rawhide Rick in the hands and mind of some hack writer. He wanted Gregory Halifax to be forced to eat his words. He wanted the record set straight. Only D. B. Morgan could make that happen.