Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs]

by A Matter of Character

  She continued to take slow sips of tea, her gaze focused on the centerpiece on the table, a rather strange-looking glass object that seemed determined to worsen the pain behind her eyes.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  She blinked, then looked at Joshua. “A bit tired is all.”

  He arched an eyebrow, as if to say he didn’t believe her.

  Forcing a smile, she said, “I’m not an early riser by nature.” That wasn’t entirely true. When she didn’t write into the late hours of the night, she often rose before the sun.

  “That’s unfortunate. Morning is the best time of the day.”

  She shrugged and sipped more tea. If it weren’t for this pain in her head, she would have gladly conversed with him.

  “Well.” He slid his chair back from the table. “I’ll meet you at eight at the front door.”

  She nodded, knowing she must appear to be in a foul mood but unable to do anything about it. She could only hope the hot beverage would work its wonders before they called upon the Coughlin brothers.

  Per Mrs. Hannigan’s directions, Joshua turned the automobile left at the first street he came to and followed it north out of the small town of Stone Creek. Fifteen minutes later, he spied the single-story log house set back from the road, surrounded by lodgepole pines.

  “There it is,” he said to Daphne.

  He slowed the motorcar and drove into the clearing in front of the cabin. As the engine fell silent, Joshua said a silent prayer, asking that truth would prevail during his meeting with Frank and Lawrence Coughlin. Then he and Daphne got out of the car and walked to the cabin’s front door. His knock was answered after a few moments by a man with thinning white hair, pale blue eyes, weathered skin, and slightly hunched shoulders.

  “Mr. Crawford?”

  Joshua nodded. “Yes.” He removed his hat. “And this is Miss McKinley. Her brother is Griff Arlington’s son-in-law.”

  “Pleased to meet you both. I’m Frank Coughlin.” He threw the door open wide. “Come in out of the cold and set yourself by the fire.”

  Joshua placed his hand in the small of Daphne’s back, a brief touch that drew her gaze before she stepped away from him.

  “This here’s my brother Larry.”

  Lawrence Coughlin bore a strong resemblance to Frank, although he stood a few inches taller and his shoulders were unbent.

  Joshua nodded at the other man. “I appreciate that you agreed to speak with us.”

  “Glad to have you,” Lawrence Coughlin said as he motioned toward four chairs near the stone fireplace. “We don’t get many visitors out this way. Besides, your message made us kind of curious. Nobody’s asked us about Richard Terrell in more years than I can remember.”

  Daphne took the chair closest to the fireplace. Joshua sat beside her and the two Coughlin brothers quickly joined them in the other chairs.

  Frank looked at Daphne. “How’s Griff? We haven’t seen him in…What? Maybe twenty, twenty-five years. His girl Cleo was about seven or eight when we left Bethlehem Springs to come to Stone Creek to work. And she’s your brother’s wife. Imagine that.”

  “No.” Daphne shook her head. “My brother is married to Cleo’s sister, Gwen.”

  Lawrence rocked back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s right. I remember now. Griff wrote us about it. Gwen came out from the East where she was livin’ with her ma and ended up as mayor of Bethlehem Springs a few years back.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Joshua wanted to interrupt, to turn the conversation to the purpose for their visit, but he reined in his impatience. Better to let the Coughlins grow comfortable with him before he began quizzing them about his grandfather. He hadn’t long to wait. After a few more questions concerning long time residents of Bethlehem Springs, most of which Daphne was able to answer, Frank Cough-lin turned his gaze upon Joshua.

  “So tell us what it is you want to know about Richard Terrell. Been a lot of years since he left Idaho. I didn’t suppose anybody but us old-timers even remembered his name.”

  Joshua drew a deep breath. “I’m his grandson.”

  “You don’t say.” Frank and Lawrence exchanged looks of surprise. “Legitimate? Never would’ve expected Judge Terrell would get hitched. He didn’t seem the kind.”

  Judge Terrell? Gregory Halifax had written in his article that Richard Terrell had been a judge, but Joshua had thought that was just more fiction. “Yes,” he answered. “My grandfather married soon after moving to St. Louis.”

  “And he had children too. Never would’ve believed it.”

  “One child. My mother. After my father died, my grandfather helped raise me.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Frank Coughlin shook his head slowly. “Just goes to show you never can tell what’ll happen in the future.”

  A frown creased Lawrence’s forehead. “I’m guessin’ he passed away or you’d be askin’ him whatever it is you want to know.”

  “He’s been dead fourteen years now.”

  “Fourteen. Must seem a long time to somebody as young as you.”

  “Mr. Coughlin.” Resting his forearms on knees, Joshua leaned forward and looked from Frank to Lawrence and back again. “There have been things written about my grandfather that simply don’t seem possible. The man I knew, the man my mother knew, was a kind, caring, hardworking, and God-fearing individual. He cared for the less fortunate and did all he could to alleviate suffering wherever it existed.” Joshua paused, searching for the right words. “But he was portrayed as a very different kind of man in some stories about the Old West that came to my attention a short while ago. I came to Idaho to discover the truth.”

  Daphne saw the look that passed between the brothers, and she felt her heart sink. Joshua wasn’t going to hear what he wanted about his grandfather. These men were about to confirm everything D. B. Morgan had written in The McFarland Chronicles. She could see it in their eyes. While a part of her was grateful to know she hadn’t written falsehoods about Richard Terrell, another now larger part of her was heartsick for Joshua. This mattered to him a great deal. Far more than it mattered to her. A fact she found surprising. Hadn’t she come with Joshua because she wanted to be vindicated?

  “This might take a spell,” Frank answered Joshua. “Why don’t I pour us all some coffee? Miss McKinley looks like she’s still feelin’ a mite chilled.”

  She offered a brief smile; she was cold, despite the nearness of the fire on the hearth. “Thank you, Mr. Coughlin. I would be obliged.”

  The elder of the brothers rose and went into the kitchen, a smaller area off the parlor of the four-roomed log house. A few minutes later, he returned with mugs of coffee on a tray. He offered it first to Daphne, then Joshua and Lawrence, before settling onto his chair again.

  “About my grandfather,” Joshua said.

  Frank nodded. “My brother and me was workin’ in the mines back when Terrell first came to Bethlehem Springs. That was in—” He scratched his grizzled jaw. “—I reckon about sixty-six. The Boise Basin gold rush brought lots of men to Idaho durin’ and after the Civil War. Men lookin’ to make new lives for themselves after all that fightin’ and destroyin’. That’s what we were doin’ too. Me and Larry.”

  Lawrence took over the narrative from his brother. “Richard Terrell came to Idaho from California, but he’d lived in the Oregon Territory twenty years before that. Came west on a wagon train. Did some buffalo huntin’ and fur trappin’. That’s where he came by the nickname of Rawhide Rick. Minin’ in California. Gamblin’ and who knew what all before he wound up in Bethlehem Springs, where he got himself appointed as judge.”

  Joshua shook his head. “He never mentioned to me that he’d been a judge.”

  “Yep. Served three years on the bench,” Frank said. “And let me tell you, he wasn’t the kind of judge you wanted presidin’ over a case if’n you weren’t rich.”

  “What are you implying?” Joshua’s voice was hard.

&
nbsp; Frank grunted. “Ain’t implyin’ nothing, Mr. Crawford. Sayin’ it right out: if a man wanted justice, he needed to pay for it in Terrell’s court.”

  “You got to remember somethin’,” Lawrence added. “Bethlehem Springs—just like most towns that sprang up during the gold rush days—was a wild and lusty place. Plenty more saloons and gamblin’ establishments than churches, that’s for sure. Not many women—least not ladies like you, Miss McKinley. All the men carried guns, and they weren’t shy about using them either. Vigilantes were quick to hang a man. Justice wasn’t easy to come by, with or without gold linin’ your pockets.”

  Frank took a long sip of coffee. “Your grandfather knew how to survive in such a place.”

  Daphne watched Joshua shake his head again, as if refusing to believe what the men had told him. Into the silence, she asked, “Did you know Mr. Terrell by more than reputation?”

  “Yep,” Lawrence answered. “Did some work for him on his place a time or two. And one thing was sure true of the man: he loved to tell his stories. If somebody was there to listen, he’d tell you all about the things he done and the places he’d been. Ain’t that right, Frank?”

  “That’s right.”

  Lawrence continued, “Said he grew up in Missouri but left the farm when he was still a young pup. Fourteen, fifteen maybe. Made his way out west anyway he could. Survival of the fittest. Ain’t that what they call it? I reckon he done whatever he had to to get by.”

  “He was right fond of telling the story about the time he killed a grizzly. Winter of 1848, I think he said it was.”

  Daphne smiled. Griff had told her that story, and she’d used it in her fourth book. She would love to know if she’d gotten the facts right. But now was not the time and this was not the day to ask.

  Joshua stood. “Gentlemen, I thank you for sparing us the time, but I believe Miss McKinley and I should begin our drive back to Bethlehem Springs. If I have more questions, perhaps you would be so good as to answer them in a letter.”

  “Sure thing. We could do that.” Frank rose to his feet as well. “But it seems you came a long way just to hear the little we’ve told you.”

  Daphne happened to agree with Frank. She could think of another dozen or so questions to ask about Richard Terrell. But one glance at Joshua silenced them in her head. He was in no mood to listen to whatever else the Coughlins had to say.

  After quick handshakes and another word of thanks, Joshua headed for the door.

  Daphne wondered if he would leave without her if she didn’t follow at once. Taking no chances, she stood. “Thank you, Mr. Coughlin.” She nodded to Frank. “Mr. Coughlin.” She nodded to Lawrence. “You’ve been very kind.”

  “Our pleasure.” Frank walked beside her. “Give Griff our regards, you hear?”

  “I will.”

  A blast of cold air struck her in the face when Joshua opened the door, but he didn’t wait for her before striding toward the automobile.

  A man could change. Coming to Christ caused a man to be born again, to be raised up new in the Lord. Changed forever. But even when Joshua acknowledged that truth, he couldn’t reconcile the Richard Terrell of the Coughlin brothers’ memories—and the one of D. B. Morgan’s books—to the Richard Terrell he’d known as a boy. It simply wasn’t possible that his grandfather had done those things, had lived that kind of life.

  Perhaps his grandfather had gone west on a wagon train as a young man. Perhaps he’d even hunted buffalo and panned for gold in California and Idaho. But a dishonest judge? It stretched the boundaries of believability to the breaking point.

  I came here for the truth. This can’t be the truth.

  Neither Daphne nor Joshua said a word as he drove the motorcar into Stone Creek. At the boarding house, they stopped for their bags as well as the lunch Joshua had paid Mrs. Hannigan to pack for them. They were on the road again fifteen minutes later.

  Thankfully, Daphne seemed inclined to leave him to his own thoughts. Thoughts as dark as the steadily darkening sky.

  THIRTEEN

  Daphne awoke with a start, feeling disoriented and confused, her body aching from head to toe. She heard the wind blowing before she realized the motorcar’s engine was silent. They were stopped in the middle of the road, and Joshua was no longer behind the steering wheel.

  How long had she been asleep? A quick glance at her watch told her it wasn’t yet noon.

  She straightened and looked about, only then realizing how dark it had become. Clouds hung low over the mountains, turning the world the color of slate. She shivered. It was unbelievably cold inside the automobile.

  Where’s Joshua?

  As the question passed through her mind, he appeared over the edge of the road, climbing up an embankment. He walked straight to the passenger door and opened it. “Good. You’re awake.”

  “Why have we stopped?”

  “There’s something wrong with the car, and you’re too sick to stay out here while I figure out what.”

  Sick? Why would he say that? She’d fallen asleep, was all.

  “I found shelter down below. There’s a cabin near the creek. Can you walk?”

  What a ridiculous question. Of course she could walk.

  “Come on.” He took hold of her arm. “We’ll take it slow.”

  She stood…and immediately crumpled to the ground. A moment later she was cradled in Joshua’s arms, her head upon his chest.

  “You’re burning up. We need to get you inside.”

  Who was he talking to? If it was her, he was crazy. She wasn’t burning up. She was freezing half to death, so cold she couldn’t keep her teeth from chattering. Each step he took jarred her bones, made her muscles ache more than before, caused her head to swim. She clasped her hands behind his neck and held on tightly lest she plummet into some black abyss.

  Cold. She was so terribly cold.

  The fire Joshua had started in the wood stove before returning to the stalled automobile hadn’t begun to warm the one-room cabin yet. After setting Daphne on the tick mattress and covering her with his coat, he checked to make sure the fire hadn’t gone out, then headed back to the motorcar for the lap blanket, the lunch Mrs. Hannigan had prepared, and their satchels. Later he would have to see if he could ascertain why the automobile had died, but he held out little hope of success. He had few mechanical skills.

  But that wasn’t his first concern. He was far more worried about Daphne. He should have guessed she wasn’t feeling well. She hadn’t been her vivacious self when they were at breakfast or later with the Coughlins. If he’d known she was ill, he might have suggested they stay in Stone Creek another night or two.

  This time when he returned to the cabin, the fire had taken some of the chill from the room. But Daphne was shivering even harder than before. He placed his hand on her forehead. He’d never touched anyone who felt this hot.

  A shudder passed through him. Not from the cold but from a recent news report that had said nearly two hundred thousand Americans had fallen victim to Spanish flu during the previous month. Larger cities had seen three hundred, five hundred, even eight hundred people die in a single day.

  Did Daphne have the Spanish influenza? God help her if she did. God help them both. He began to pray hard as he laid the blanket he’d brought from the car over her. She stirred, her eyes fluttering but never opening, and then she rolled onto her left side and curled into a fetal position, still shivering. She mumbled something unintelligible.

  He leaned closer. “What do you need, Daphne?”

  She didn’t answer.

  A feeling of helplessness washed over Joshua. He had little experience with sick people. Even his grandfather had remained hale and hearty until almost the last day of his life. As for himself, Joshua was healthy as a horse. Rarely even had so much as a head cold.

  He racked his brain for what he’d learned about influenza in recent months. The disease was most dangerous to the young and the elderly. However, the Spanish flu had also proven deadl
y to those in the prime of life, people in their twenties and thirties—people like Daphne. Since the first outbreak in the spring of that year, hundreds of thousands around the world had died from it, although because of the war it was hard to get the full truth about the pandemic. Government censors and all that.

  He rose from the side of the cot and began a more in-depth exploration of the cabin. In one cabinet there were cooking and eating utensils, a few pots and pans, and mismatched plates, bowls, and cups. In another he found food supplies—canned and dried goods. In a large trunk he discovered bedding and, in a smaller one, men’s and women’s clothing. There was a box on a table with some bandages, ointment, hydrogen peroxide, and other first-aid items. Several fishing poles were leaned in a corner.

  A fine layer of dust covered everything indoors, but it was obvious the cabin hadn’t been abandoned. Perhaps the people who owned it came into the mountains from Boise or another town to the south for several weeks or even a couple of months in the summer. The owners must not worry about others using it, for he’d found a key to the door without difficulty. Thank God for that. The little house would keep them warm and fed until they were able to travel again. He hoped that would be soon.

  Her throat was on fire. Her body ached. Every joint. Every muscle. The backs of her eyelids felt like sandpaper. She couldn’t stop shivering, despite the blankets that covered her. Heavy blankets, a weight that seemed to crush her bones.

  A few times she thought she heard what seemed like familiar voices, but the words were indistinguishable. Once she cried out, “Mother!” Even as she said the name, she knew it wasn’t possible. Her mother was dead…

  Maybe so was she.

  The wind came first, whistling through the canyon and slamming into the sturdy log cabin. Then, just before nightfall, the wind silenced and it began to snow. Large lazy flakes at first, followed by smaller ones that fell in a dense curtain to the ground.