“Please join us, Mr. Crawford.” Gwen placed her fingers lightly on the back of his hand. “No one should be alone on Thanksgiving Day.”
There would be no refusing her, he realized. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she had no intention of accepting any excuse he made. And truth be known, he didn’t want to refuse. “All right, Mrs. McKinley. I shall be delighted to accept your invitation.”
“Wonderful. Everyone will come to the house immediately after attending the community Thanksgiving service at the Presbyterian church.”
With another nod, Joshua opened the door and went out into the frigid November air. He bent his head into the wind as he walked along Skyview Street, down the hillside, and through the center of town to the newspaper offices. By the time he opened the door to the Herald, his face and ears felt half frozen from the cold.
He hung his hat and coat on the rack. At his desk, he picked up that morning’s edition of the newspaper. Glancing through the pages, he made mental notes to himself about changes he wanted to make in future editions. And those thoughts made him think of Daphne again.
Naturally.
She’d rarely been out of his thoughts since their return to Bethlehem Springs.
When Morgan had dropped by the newspaper office early that morning and shared his concerns about his sister’s health and lethargy, Joshua had been glad for a reason to call upon her at the McKinley home. He’d wanted to visit before now, but he’d always stopped himself from going. Perhaps because whenever he thought of her, he pictured her sitting up in bed, her dark mass of hair falling around her shoulders.
He rubbed his hands over his face, as if he could wipe away that image. But he couldn’t. It was burned into his mind, and it troubled him. Deeply troubled him. For the truth was, now that the danger was over, now that they were safely home, he couldn’t help wishing they were back in that cabin, just the two of them, under much different circumstances.
October 15, 1872
Bethlehem Springs is like Idaho City in many ways. Gold strikes in 1863 brought hordes of people into the mountains of the Boise Basin. When I left Bethlehem Springs nearly two years ago, there were several mining enterprises to the west still in operation and a new lumber mill to the south. The town also had at least a half dozen saloons and numerous other businesses. There remains a lot of promise for a better future for the citizens of Bethlehem Springs, but it will never grow to be the size of Idaho City. At least that’s what I predict.
When I arrived in Bethlehem Springs in the spring of 1866, I acquired an existing saloon, purchased the livery stable, and opened my law office. I also took it upon myself to build an opera house. I aspired to refinement—or to, at the very least, have others think me refined.
I guess it worked, for the following year I was sworn into office as a judge. Judge Richard Terrell, the very same man who’d been dubbed Rawhide Rick when he first arrived in California seventeen years earlier. I was a self-made man without any formal education. (At least I considered myself self-made at the time. Now I see things somewhat differently. I believe God was altering the course of my life even then.)
I wish I could write that becoming an arbiter of justice changed me for the better, but that would be a lie. Another lie in a long string of lies. Truth was a relative thing in my mind. I told it when it was convenient or beneficial to me. I twisted it when to do otherwise wouldn’t be convenient or beneficial to me. What mattered to Richard Terrell was the only thing that was important.
As a lawyer, I was interested in one thing—winning. As a judge, I was interested in doing whatever would help me in the present or the future. Plenty of men paid me to find in their behalf.
It wasn’t that I needed the money. I was already a wealthy man. I’d been a wealthy man for many, many years by then. I owned the largest, most elegant house in town. I had the best horses and the finest carriage. But no matter how much I had, it was never enough. Enough wasn’t a word in my vocabulary. I was greedy.
Perhaps I became that way because of the poverty I experienced in my early years. Or perhaps it’s the sin-nature I was born with. Who besides God can know our hearts and minds?
I can sleep at night now only because I know that I didn’t sentence any innocent men to death or to long prison terms. But did I mete out true justice in my court? Not often. Maybe not ever.
SEVENTEEN
Daphne finished reading the article, then laid the sheets of paper on the writing desk with a sigh of satisfaction. She’d done it. Her next column was ready to turn in. She hoped Joshua would be as pleased with it as she was. After all, he’d inspired the topic. Not that anyone other than she and Joshua would know.
She pushed the chair back from the desk. Lifting her arms above her head, she stood and stretched.
Her gaze moved around the second-story bedroom of her brother’s house. It was comfortable and familiar to her, and yet it wasn’t home. She missed her own little office and her many books and even her brand-new typewriter. She missed the freedom that came with living alone. While she was grateful for the care Morgan and Gwen had given her during her illness and recovery, she was ready to be out from under their watchful eyes. The depression, the lethargy, seemed to have lifted at last. Perhaps because writing the article on the desk had required her to think and act.
She crossed the room and sank onto the edge of her bed, lifting her Bible off the nightstand as she did so. She opened it to 1st Chronicles, the twenty-eighth chapter, and read aloud the words that had spoken to her heart that morning: “And David said to Solomon his son, Be strong and of good courage, and do it: fear not, nor be dismayed: for the LORD God, even my God, will be with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee, until thou hast finished all the work for the service of the house of the LORD.”
Do it. Do the work. God will be with thee.
It seemed so clear. The Lord was telling her to get on with her work. He would be with her in whatever He called her to do. And hadn’t Paul told believers that whatever they did, they were to do it as unto the Lord and with all their might? She was a writer, and she should be writing.
She closed the Bible and set it on the bed beside her.
It was time she went home and got back to work. She was well. God had restored her to good health. She would return to her own home tomorrow night, as soon as all of the McKinley Thanksgiving guests had departed.
Feeling energized by her decision, she left the bedroom, following the sound of Gwen’s voice into the nursery, where she found her sister-in-law seated on the floor, Ellie held in the crook of her left arm and Andy held in the crook of her right arm as she read to him from an open book.
Thank You, Father, that they didn’t take sick. It was a prayer of gratitude she’d sent up daily in the two weeks since she and Joshua were brought back to Bethlehem Springs in her brother’s sleigh.
She entered the nursery and sank down beside Gwen. “Can I be of help?”
Her sister-in-law smiled as she passed the dozing infant into Daphne’s waiting arms.
“Mama’s reading,” Andy offered, turning the page of his book.
“I see that. What’s the story?” Tom Sum.
“Tom Thumb,” Gwen corrected.
Grinning, the boy said, “He’s littler than me. He’s even littler than Ellie.”
Daphne laughed. “I know. Tom Thumb’s only this big.” She held up her right thumb.
Andy tugged on his mother’s arm, demanding that she continue with the story. Gwen obliged, and Daphne was content to listen as she gently rocked Ellie from side to side, her gaze fastened on the baby’s sweet face. She had little notion how much time passed before she realized Gwen had fallen silent. She glanced up to find Andy had fallen asleep like his sister.
“You’re feeling stronger today,” Gwen whispered. “I can tell.”
Daphne nodded. “Much.”
“Good.” Gwen looked at Andy. “Let’s put these two down so you and I can relax.”
A short
while later, with the children both in their beds, the two women slipped out of the nursery, Gwen closing the door behind them.
“I finished my next column for the newspaper.” Daphne slipped her arm into the crook of Gwen’s. “I think it’s rather good if I do say so myself.”
“May I read it?”
“Do you mind waiting until Mr. Crawford says whether or not he likes it?”
“Not at all. I remember what I was like when I was writing a column for the paper.”
They began down the stairs, taking each step in unison.
“Do you miss it?” Daphne asked when they reached the bottom step.
“Writing? Not really. I’ve found other things more satisfying.”
“I fear I would miss it horribly.”
They walked into the front parlor, and Gwen settled onto the settee. Daphne sat on a nearby chair.
“I read one of your books.”
Daphne felt a shiver of nerves. She’d known Morgan had told his wife about her novels, but the two women hadn’t spoken of them before this moment. There hadn’t been an opportunity before Daphne’s trip to Stone Creek, and after the trip she’d been too ill. “Which one?” she asked softly.
“The first one. The Fate of Phoebe Tate.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was quite the adventure, wasn’t it?”
That wasn’t a real answer to her question, but Daphne let it pass. “Would you be embarrassed if others knew I was the author?”
“No.” Gwen frowned thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed. Neither would your brother. But whatever made you decide to write that kind of story? A dime novel doesn’t—” She gave a small shrug. “It doesn’t seem like you.”
Daphne felt a sting of disappointment, realizing then that she’d hoped for words of praise. “I love all the legends of the Old West. After I came to Idaho and had the opportunity to listen to so many of Griff’s stories, I discovered I wanted to write about some of them. That’s what got me started. When I wrote The Fate of Phoebe Tate, I never dreamed it would actually get published.”
“And what about Rawhide Rick? Did you portray him accurately?”
“According to the Coughlins, yes.”
“Poor Mr. Crawford. I suppose now that he knows the truth about his grandfather he’ll go back to St. Louis.”
Daphne caught her breath. She hadn’t thought of that. Was learning about his grandfather’s past the only thing that had brought Joshua to Bethlehem Springs? Hadn’t he come for a job with the Herald? Would he really leave so soon? And why on earth did the notion of his leaving make her feel bereft?
Wednesday, 27 November 1918
Dear Mary Theresa,
I regret that it has taken so long for me to reply to your letter of 4 November. It arrived when I was out of town, and I have been much occupied with other matters since my return to Bethlehem Springs.
Perhaps Mother told you that I was to interview a couple of elderly gentlemen who purportedly knew my grandfather when he lived in Idaho. At the time I met with them, I wasn’t satisfied with what they had to tell me and didn’t give them sufficient time to tell me everything they knew. I have since written to them with additional questions. I am also querying the Idaho Daily Statesman in Boise City as well as applying for information from the state. I’m told that Grandfather served as a judge for three years here in Crow County. A fire in Bethlehem Springs in 1886 destroyed county government records along with the newspaper archives, but I hope I can get the information I desire from other sources.
It is clear to me that I will be obliged to remain in Idaho longer than previously planned. Perhaps until spring. I have determined not to leave until I am convinced of the complete facts regarding my grandfather. Naturally, I also hope that my findings will allow me to prove that what Mr. Halifax suggested about him was unfounded and untrue.
Bethlehem Springs has had one case of the Spanish influenza, but so far there have been no new cases reported. Every one of my acquaintance here is understandably thankful to God that the town hasn’t suffered a worse outbreak.
I pray that this letter will find you well.
I remain affectionately yours,
Joshua
Joshua looked at the closing words and wondered at their accuracy. Was he affectionately hers? He’d thought so for a number of years. After all, it had been the wish of both of their grandfathers that the two families would be joined through the marriage of Joshua and Mary Theresa.
“But I don’t love her,” he whispered as he signed his name. “I don’t desire her.”
It hadn’t bothered him before, the lack of passion between them. He and Mary Theresa were fond of each other. They had grown up together and had countless shared memories. They were both believers in the saving grace of Jesus Christ. Weren’t those things enough to build a good marriage upon?
He tried to picture Mary Theresa in his mind, to remind himself of the many things he liked and admired about her. But it wasn’t Mary Theresa’s image he recalled. It was Daphne’s, her thick black hair cascading about her shoulders, her brown eyes wide and inquiring, her generous mouth bowed in a smile.
Why, he wondered, had the beautiful Miss McKinley never married? He suspected it was because no man had come along who’d swept her off her feet. She had a zest for living that was revealed in her dark eyes and her joyous laughter and her wondrous smile. A marriage lacking in ardor and zeal would never do for her.
He knew it then. He wouldn’t be able to give his heart to Mary Theresa in the future. He’d already lost it to Daphne.
EIGHTEEN
Morgan and Gwen tried to convince Daphne to stay home from church on Thanksgiving morning, insisting she should rest since there would be a houseful of guests the remainder of the day, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded. She wanted to thank God in His sanctuary for the life she still enjoyed. It had come upon her suddenly yesterday, the realization of how close she’d been to dying and the mercy that God had shown in restoring her to health and to the loving arms of her family.
And so, a little before 10:00 a.m., she walked into All Saint’s Presbyterian Church for the community Thanksgiving service. The narthex had been decorated with white and brown ribbons and bouquets of dried flowers. The voices of friends and neighbors greeting one another filled the entry and reached to the rafters.
“You look well, Miss McKinley.” “
So good to see roses in your cheeks, Daphne.”
“Thank God they were able to find you after that snowstorm, Miss McKinley.”
She shook hands and thanked folks for their good wishes and kind words. There were a few who refused to speak to her. They were the ones—like her neighbor, Edna Updike—who had publicly criticized her decision to take such a trip, an unmarried woman with an unmarried man and without a proper chaperone. The ones who thought her character compromised, her reputation sullied, by the days she’d been in that cabin with Joshua Crawford. Her brother and sister-in-law had done their best to shield her from the gossip, but she’d heard of it anyway. Her critics were the same folks who always thought the worst of others, and she was determined not to allow their censure to spoil this day for her.
As the family moved through the doorways into the sanctuary, she saw Joshua standing near one of the stained-glass windows on the right side of the spacious room, deep in conversation with Christina Patterson. Her chest tightened at the sight of them. It took her a moment to recognize the sensation.
Jealousy? For heaven’s sake. She’d never felt jealous of anyone or anything in her entire life. Why ever would she feel it now?
True, Christina was comely, even in her mourning attire, and Joshua seemed to be hanging on her every word. The two of them worked together at the newspaper every day. They must have come to know each other well by this time. It was also true that Daphne could not be the only single woman in Bethlehem Springs who found Joshua attractive. How could anyone not notice his gorgeous blue eyes that seemed able to look
straight into a person’s heart or the attractive smile that made a girl’s heart quicken?
But still…Jealousy? That wouldn’t do.
When the McKinleys reached their regular pew, they found Griff, Cleo, and Woody already seated there. Daphne slipped in first and sat beside Cleo. Gwen followed next with Ellie, and Morgan brought up the rear with Andy.
Immediately, Cleo took Daphne’s left hand in both of hers and squeezed it. “You look like you’re feeling lots better than the last time I saw you.”
“I am.”
“Looks like our prayers for you were answered.”
Daphne nodded. “I’m returning home tonight or tomorrow morning. I don’t want to be under Morgan’s and Gwen’s feet any longer.”
“I reckon they don’t feel you’ve been in the way.”
She smiled, knowing Cleo was right. She would be welcome to stay in the McKinley home just as long as she liked. Forever, if she chose. But she was ready to leave. She was ready to get back to her writing and to her own life. A life God had graciously granted back to her.
From his seat two rows back and across the aisle, Joshua observed Daphne. Wisps of hair curled along her neck beneath the umber-colored hat she wore. It was the exact same shade as her jacket and skirt. A color too somber for Daphne. She should wear more vibrant tones, he decided. Colors as vibrant as she was.
He closed his eyes and tried to shove the thoughts away. Daphne had been too much on his mind since he’d written his letter to Mary Theresa yesterday. Thoughts of Daphne had hounded him during his waking moments and plagued his dreams while he slept. He half wished the anger he’d once felt toward her would return. He knew what to do with his anger. He hadn’t a clue what to do with the emotions roiling inside him now.
The church organ began to play. Joshua rose with the rest of the congregation to join in the singing of the familiar hymn and for the next hour or so was able to successfully—for the most part—focus his thoughts on God rather than the beautiful young woman two rows up and one aisle across from him.
Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Page 14