Feeling agitated, he got to his feet and walked to the front door, where he flipped around the sign that announced the newspaper office was closed. Then he headed toward the rear entrance, turning off lights as he went. Soon enough, the back door was locked behind him, and Joshua was climbing the stairs to his apartment. Overhead the sky was a slate gray, a solid blanket of moisture-laden clouds. He’d overheard many times since Sunday the prediction that snow was coming, and it looked to him as if those predictions might prove true today.
Daphne was driving her red McLaughlin-Buick—affectionately dubbed Mack—along Main Street when she saw a man on the sidewalk, leaning his head into the gusting wind. Joshua Crawford on his way to Morgan’s house. She knew it even though she saw him only from the back.
She rolled the motorcar to a stop and called to him. “Mr. Crawford!”
He stopped in a pool of light from the streetlamp.
“Get in.” She motioned for him to join her. “We’re headed to the same destination.”
He hesitated a moment before stepping into the street and hurrying around the front of her car, still holding onto his hat.
As soon as he was in the passenger seat, the door closed, Daphne said, “It’s a foul night to be afoot.”
“Indeed, it is.”
She accelerated, and the motorcar continued up the street.
“It was good of you to stop for me, Miss McKinley. I’ve been shown nothing but kindness since my arrival in Bethlehem Springs.”
“I know precisely what you mean.” She glanced in his direction, smiling. “I felt the same way when I came here three years ago.”
“What made you decide to live in Bethlehem Springs? It seems an odd choice. For both you and your brother. You could make your home anywhere.”
Daphne heard the unspoken “Because you’re rich,” a reminder she disliked. She often treated such comments with stony silence, but she decided to answer this time. “Morgan is here because of the hot springs. Of course, he could have built his resort any number of places, but he felt this was the right location. And when I came to visit him for the summer, I fell in love with the town and its people. Bethlehem Springs has a certain…charm.”
“Hmm.”
Was that a sound of agreement or disagreement? “And what brought you to Idaho, Mr. Crawford? There must be need for someone with your qualifications at newspapers closer to Missouri.”
“I had a position with a newspaper in St. Louis, Miss McKin-ley, but I needed to come to Idaho on a personal matter. Nathan Patterson’s job offer allowed me to make the trip.”
On a personal matter. That sounded mysterious. Daphne wondered what it could be. Perhaps it was—
She cut off the “what-if” game before it could take hold.
For as far back as she could remember, she’d spun stories in her mind. About people she saw on the street. About words she overheard in a restaurant. About the horse pulling the iceman’s wagon. About the stray dog begging for something to eat. The habit had caused her no end of trouble when she was in school. She’d be listening to the teacher and then something he said would spark a question or an idea and off Daphne would go into her imaginary world. More than once it had earned her a smack on the hand with a ruler.
She would have to give herself a mental smack with the ruler if she started making up stories about Joshua Crawford. After all, now that she was writing a column for the newspaper, he was her boss.
Thankfully, the ensuing silence didn’t have a chance to feel awkward before they arrived at Morgan’s house. She pulled the motorcar into the half-circle drive and cut the engine near the front steps. Joshua was quick to disembark, then offer her assistance. As she placed her fingers into his open hand, she looked up. Oh, my. That astonishing gaze of his. It was mesmerizing. Had she ever seen anyone with eyes that same piercing shade of blue? Surely not.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He continued to hold her hand until they’d climbed the steps onto the veranda. Would he have held on longer if her brother hadn’t opened the door at just that moment? She would never know.
“Mr. Crawford. Daphne. Come in, the both of you. Come in before you blow away.”
Joshua motioned for Daphne to precede him, and she didn’t hesitate to oblige. Not so much from the cold as from the strange way she felt, her stomach all atwitter.
“What dreadful weather.” Gwen welcomed Daphne with a kiss on the cheek before helping with her coat. “I’m afraid winter is upon us early.” After hanging the garment on the nearby coat tree, she turned to meet her other guest.
Morgan made the introductions. “My dear, this is Joshua Crawford. Mr. Crawford, my wife, Guinevere McKinley.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. McKinley.”
“And you, Mr. Crawford. We’re so glad you came to Bethlehem Springs. Our town was not the same without its newspaper.”
After Joshua’s coat and hat joined Daphne’s on the tree, the small party went into the front parlor. While Daphne sat on the settee, Joshua expressed admiration for the grand piano.
“Do you play?” Gwen asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. Never had the opportunity to learn.”
Daphne thought she heard regret in his voice.
Morgan must have heard it too. “It’s never too late to learn. I should know. I got serious about it just three years ago.”
“It didn’t hurt that you fell in love with your piano teacher,” Daphne said with a laugh.
Gwen blushed when Morgan turned his eyes on her. “No, that didn’t hurt at all.”
A rare feeling of envy rose in Daphne’s chest as she watched her brother and sister-in-law, saw the unspoken thoughts of love pass between them. What would it be like to know someone so well you could communicate without saying a word?
Surreptitiously, she glanced at their dinner guest. She thought perhaps he might be wondering the same thing—and that thought elicited a fondness for him that she hadn’t felt before.
Joshua liked the McKinleys. For people of wealth and society, they were surprisingly down to earth. Not that Joshua knew many people of wealth and society. None, unless he counted the ones he’d interviewed for articles in the newspaper. Certainly he’d never been invited to dine in their homes.
And what a dinner he enjoyed with the McKinleys. He hadn’t eaten this well in he couldn’t remember how long. Maybe never. The roast beef was succulent, the vegetables flavorful, and the dessert—cherries jubilee over vanilla ice cream—delicious.
“Mrs. McKinley.” He laid his napkin on the table next to his empty dessert plate. “I’ve never enjoyed a meal more. Thank you for including me.”
“It was our pleasure to have you, Mr. Crawford. And I’ll pass along your compliment to our cook. She’ll be pleased to know you enjoyed it.”
What must it be like to have a cook and a maid and other servants to tend to your every need, Joshua wondered. When his mother was young, her father was still a wealthy man. But God had called Richard Terrell to use his personal fortune to better the lives of others, and he had done so gladly for years, ministering to the needs of homeless men and orphaned children in St. Louis.
Thinking of his grandfather reminded Joshua why he’d accepted Morgan McKinley’s invitation to dine in his home. He leaned back in his chair and, in as offhand a manner as he could muster, asked, “I wonder if you might know a man with the last name of Morgan. Supposedly he lives in the area. D. B. Morgan.”
His host’s eyes narrowed in thought, and then he shook his head slowly. “Sorry. I don’t know him.”
There was nothing about Morgan’s expression that caused Joshua to think he wasn’t telling the truth, and Joshua discovered he was relieved. He would prefer to have Morgan as a friend rather than a foe.
“Who is he?”
“A writer.” Joshua swallowed the disdain he felt, keeping any emotion—beyond mild curiosity—from his voice. “I was told that Mr. Morgan lived in or near Bethlehem Springs, and I’m h
oping I can speak with him about his books. I—”
Daphne began to cough, so violently that tears soon tracked her cheeks. With all eyes on her, she pushed up from her chair. “Excuse me,” she choked out. “Something…went down…my windpipe.” Napkin held to her lips, she left the room, staggering slightly when another fit of coughing overtook her.
“Gracious.” Gwen rose to her feet. “I’d best make certain she’s all right.” She hurried after her sister-in-law.
Joshua’s opportunity to ask questions had passed. But what did it matter? It was apparent none of the McKinleys knew anything about D. B. Morgan. Not even that he was a writer of dime novels. Which shouldn’t surprise him. This wasn’t the sort of family who read such tripe. The McKinleys’ reading preferences probably leaned toward the great masters of literature.
“Why don’t we await the return of the ladies in the front parlor,” Morgan suggested.
Joshua nodded his agreement.
The two men rose in unison and made their way from the dining room, through the entry hall, and into the parlor where they had gathered before dinner. A fire burned on the hearth and electric lights chased shadows into the far corners of the room. Outside, the wind continued to whistle beneath the eaves and cause the near-leafless trees to bounce and sway.
“Do you have family in St. Louis?” Morgan asked as they settled onto chairs near the fireplace.
“Yes, my mother lives there.” Joshua didn’t usually talk about himself. He preferred to be the one asking questions. But he felt comfortable with Morgan—now that he knew he wasn’t D. B. Morgan—and for some reason the words flowed out of him without additional encouragement. “With her new husband. They’ve been married six months. It’s one reason I felt able to make this trip. My father died when I was an infant, and my mother and I lived with my grandfather until his death fourteen years ago. Then it was just the two of us until last year when she met Mr. Hanson.”
Morgan nodded in understanding. “My mother was widowed, although I wasn’t as young as you when my father passed away. I take it you approve of your stepfather.”
“Yes.” It was a simple response, but coming to the point of liking Charlie Hanson, of approving of his mother’s marriage to him, hadn’t been simple in the least. Joshua hadn’t been sure Charlie could make his mother happy. He’d been wrong about that. Angelica Terrell Crawford Hanson had never been happier than during these past six months.
“And you? Is there a young lady waiting for you in St. Louis?”
Before he could respond, they were interrupted by the arrival of his hostess. Joshua stood, as did Morgan, as she walked toward them.
“Mr. Crawford, Daphne wishes me to express her apologies for her abrupt departure from the dinner table. She isn’t feeling well, and I’ve put her to bed upstairs. She’ll be staying here for the night.”
“Then I should be going. Please tell Miss McKinley I hope she feels better soon.” Joshua looked at Morgan. “I appreciate you and your wife’s kind hospitality, Mr. McKinley.”
“We enjoyed having you,” Morgan replied. “Allow me to drive you home.”
“That’s kind of you, but I believe the walk will do me good after that fine meal.” He turned a second time toward Gwen. “Thank you for the pleasant evening.”
“You’re most welcome. But are you sure you don’t want Morgan to drive you? The wind is still so strong.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m sure. It isn’t far to my apartment.”
From her room upstairs, Daphne listened to the voices as Gwen and Morgan bid good evening to their guest. For herself, she couldn’t wait for Joshua Crawford to be gone. She felt her secret was at risk as long as he was in the house.
How had he learned that D. B. Morgan resided in Bethlehem Springs? Shriver & Sons knew that information wasn’t to be given out to a soul. She trusted Elwood Shriver hadn’t leaked that bit of information. But someone had. Who? As soon as she returned home, she would write to Mr. Shriver to express her displeasure over this breach of privacy.
As for Joshua, why would he want to meet D. B. Morgan? The McFarland Chronicles had sold moderately well, considering the popularity of dime novels had been on the decline for a number of years. But it wasn’t as if her books would earn her a Pulitzer Prize. She wasn’t so prolific, nor were her books the type of novels that brought an author the notice of newspapers—unless someone had discovered they were written by a woman. More especially, by an heiress.
She closed her eyes, her head throbbing. She loved writing, loved spinning adventure tales, but the last thing in the world she wanted was to embarrass her family. What if Joshua intended to write some horrid exposé about her? What if he tried to smear her brother’s good name or damage the reputation of the New Hope Health Spa? What if Joshua already knew who she was and had come to dinner under false pretenses? What if—
She drew a deep breath and forced herself to exhale slowly. There was no need to panic. No need to torture herself with what might happen in the future. This day had enough trouble of its own. Besides, Mr. Crawford didn’t know D. B. Morgan was female. His inquiry had made that clear. No, there was no reason to panic. She would simply stay as far away from him as possible.
Let him ask his questions. Her secret was safe.
With the wind at his back, Joshua’s walk into town from the hillside home of the McKinleys was an easy one. Still, he wished he could have shared another ride with Daphne. He would have enjoyed being in her company a little longer. There was something about her—beyond the loveliness of her face and figure—that made him want to know her more.
You don’t plan to stay in Bethlehem Springs. Remember why you’re here.
Find D. B. Morgan. Get him to agree to set the record straight about Richard Terrell. Help Mrs. Patterson find a new managing editor for the Herald. Return to St. Louis. Get an apology from Gregory Halifax and his job back from Langston Lee. Get on with his life. That was his plan.
But in his mind, he saw Daphne’s smile, heard her laughter. She intrigued him, this woman of quality and privilege. At the dinner table tonight, he’d learned she was both witty and well read. He suspected she could hold her own in any conversation.
What would it hurt if some of those conversations were with him?
January 1, 1872
California! Gold!
The word was that you could walk around and pluck heavy gold nuggets off the ground. It wasn’t far from the truth. There was lots of gold and it was easy to get to, not buried hundreds of feet below the ground’s surface. Still, I was quick to learn that there were better ways to make my fortune than working a claim.
Men rushed to California from all over the world, eager to get rich quick, and there was more than women in short supply in that brave new land. Food was scarce, as were picks, tents, clothing, and just about anything else a man needed to work his claim.
I was twenty-eight and determined I wouldn’t fail. I didn’t care what I had to do to come out on top either. I had begun to hone the kind of character traits that would serve me well in getting what I wanted. I learned I could cheat at cards without getting caught, and I could tell a convincing lie with a straight face. Something else I discovered: I was a shrewd businessman.
What did the men in the hills of California want almost as much as gold? Women and liquor. I provided them with both.
In 1852, through a less than honest series of events, I became the owner of a dance hall called the Golden Nugget. The liquor wasn’t the best, but it would get a man drunk quick enough. A customer had to pay premium prices for every swallow—to me.
I got rich. Not plucking nuggets of gold off the ground but by taking them from the men who worked their claims and came to town for supplies. I got richer still selling desperate young women for an hour to those same lonely, equally desperate men. The girls were young and pretty and smelled good. I told myself that what they did in those upstairs rooms wasn’t my fault. It was their choice to go to work for me. I was j
ust their employer. I convinced myself that I was protecting them from the hard, cruel world beyond the doors of the Golden Nugget. I even believed the lies I told myself for many years.
I would find them today if I could, those dance hall girls, and tell them I’m sorry. But the Golden Nugget burned to the ground soon after I left California, and those who once worked for me were scattered with the ashes.
March 30, 1872
Annie has given me wonderful news. She is with child. The baby is expected in September. It would be hard for me to adequately express the joy I feel. I am fifty-one years old, and although I secretly hoped when Annie and I wed that we might have children together, I knew that it might not happen.
God’s grace is an amazing thing. That I, such a great sinner who deserves nothing good from the hand of the Lord, should be so blessed is beyond comprehension.
SIX
Daphne couldn’t avoid seeing Joshua Crawford for long. Not if she wanted to write a regular column for the newspaper—and she did. Therefore, on Friday afternoon she pushed open the door to the Triweekly Herald, her heart beating faster than normal.
Relief swept through her when she saw Christina at the front desk. With any luck, Daphne wouldn’t have to face Joshua today. Although she’d never felt guilty about her alter-ego before, since Wednesday evening she’d begun to wonder if using a pseudonym was more than a matter of privacy for herself and her family, more than an easy avenue to publication in a male dominated field. Was it also dishonest?
“Good afternoon, Miss McKinley,” Christina greeted her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Patterson. I’ve brought my first column. I hope you’ll be pleased.” As she spoke, Daphne placed the carefully written pages on the raised counter.
Christina stood, her complexion looking pale against her stark black dress, and came around the desk. “I’ll make sure Mr. Crawford sees it as soon as he returns. I believe he plans to run your columns in the Monday edition of the paper.”
Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Page 5