Every Perfect Gift

by Dorothy Love

  Sophie grabbed the reins. “Then I suppose I’ll have to take whatever mount is available from the livery and ride up there all alone. Unarmed. In the dark.”

  McCracken sighed. “This is dangerous business. And besides, it isn’t proper.” He looked down pointedly at her skirt.

  “It’s dark, Mr. McCracken. No one will be scandalized. And this is my first big story. Don’t make me miss out just because we’re short a horse.”

  “Sheriff, we’re losing time,” Trotter said.

  The sheriff grunted in exasperation but held out his hand. “Are you going to be this much trouble every day?”

  “Oh, no, sir.” She grabbed his hand and vaulted onto the horse, settling herself behind him, arranging her skirt as best she could. “Some days I expect I’ll be even more trouble.”

  The riders headed for the logging trail behind the train station and began the climb to Blue Smoke, Mr. Foster and Mr. Trotter in the lead. Sophie tucked her notebook inside her reticule and draped her shawl over her head to ward off the chilly mist shrouding the mountain. Light flickered through the thick stands of trees, the torch fires hissing in the damp.

  As they neared the resort, shouts shattered the darkness. Gunfire erupted.

  “Hold on.” The sheriff dug his heels into the horse’s flank and they flew through the darkness, passing the others and arriving just as another round of gunfire split the night.

  Sheriff McCracken dismounted and helped her down. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Do not move.”

  Sophie frowned. How in the world did he expect her to write a full account of this event without getting close to the action? It would be like getting one’s nourishment by watching someone else eat. She waited until the sheriff had drawn his gun and moved toward the front entrance. Then she circled behind the waiting horses. Keeping to the shadows, she crossed the wide expanse of lawn to where a small knot of men huddled beside an empty freight wagon.

  “What happened?” She addressed her question to a brown-haired young man dressed in denim pants and a blue-plaid shirt.

  He spun around. “Holy cats. What’s a girl doing in the middle of a fistfight?”

  “Is that what it is, a fistfight? Who started it? What’s it about?”

  A string of shouted curses blued the air. A window shattered. A Chinese man, his pigtail flying, scurried from the shadows and disappeared around back.

  A burly, red-bearded man frowned at Sophie. “Who wants to know?”

  Brown Hair glared at him. “It started out as a fistfight, miss, but then O’Connor over there pulled his gun, and then Mr. Heyward ran out and—”

  “Mr. Heyward. That would be Mr. Ethan Heyward?”

  “One and the same. He doesn’t allow gunplay up here. He took Jubal’s rifle, and Jubal took a swing at Mr. Heyward. I reckon Jubal will be gone for good come daylight.”

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t think anybody was hit. The gunfire’s just a way the men have of blowin’ off steam. They don’t mean anything by it.”

  “But someone told the sheriff a riot was in progress.”

  “Yes’m. This argument got out of hand, all right. The next thing we knew there was more’n thirty men slugging it out.” He shook his head. “One of the younger boys on the logging crew got scared and sounded the alarm. Truth is, the Irish and the ni—uh, black folks don’t like each other at all.”

  Sophie’s stomach dropped at the man’s use of the hated epithet, but she nodded.

  “Both groups hate the Chinese.” The young man jerked his thumb toward the door to the kitchen. “Li Chung keeps to hisself mostly, but the others have been at each other’s throats since this whole project began. And I for one’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  “What do the men fight about?”

  Brown Hair’s burly companion shrugged. “You name it. Women, whiskey, cards, somebody looks at somebody else the wrong way. You get nigh on a hundred men living in these conditions, fights are bound to break out. Two men got themselves killed last year. But Mr. Heyward don’t like to admit there’s problems up here.”

  Torchlight flared as Sheriff McCracken’s men fanned out through the crowd, shouting orders and dispersing the men. Over her interviewee’s shoulder, Sophie saw Ethan Heyward talking with one of his workers, one hand resting on the man’s shoulder. “You mentioned problems. What kind of problems, exactly?”

  The man took a step back. “I’m not saying. And I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell nobody what I just said. I need this job.” He frowned. “You never did say what you’re doing up here with the sheriff.”

  The crowd melted into the darkness. McCracken spoke to Mr. Heyward before heading toward his mount. Sophie watched Mr. Heyward head back inside. He moved with the confidence of a man who understood his place in the world and reveled in it. She was attracted to his power and slightly afraid of it. Apparently his men felt the same way.

  “I must go.” Sophie hurried over and met the sheriff beneath the trees. Mr. Foster and Mr. Trotter, their torches burning low, joined them.

  “Well, Miss Caldwell.” McCracken swung into the saddle and held out his hand to her. “Looks like you came all this way for nothing. Just a few drunks letting off steam. Don’t seem like there’s much of an interesting newspaper story after all.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Sheriff.” Sophie mounted up behind him, her brief conversation with the men playing in her mind. What sort of problems existed at Blue Smoke? And why was Mr. Heyward loath to speak of them?

  The answers to those questions might prove interesting indeed.

  Sheriff Eli McCracken, in the company of six townsmen, quelled a disagreement last week at the Blue Smoke resort. According to eyewitnesses, violence has marred the project from the beginning due to conditions the witnesses were unwilling to discuss. What does seem clear is that tensions among the various groups of men working on the resort erupt into gunfire on a regular basis, gunfire that has resulted in death for two workers. Steps should be taken to resolve whatever conditions are responsible for this atmosphere at Blue Smoke before some other unfortunate man loses his life.

  Sophie rolled the paper from her typewriting machine and scanned it, then placed it in the wire basket with the other stories she was accumulating for her first issue of the Gazette. The piece still needed work. But today was Sunday, and she had promised to visit Ada’s friend Carrie Daly Rutledge at her horse farm outside town.

  She removed her reading spectacles and rose from her desk, glancing over at the steam press in the composing room. The new type trays and composing sticks she had ordered from Chicago had arrived. Too bad there was no time to begin setting the type for the first issue. Placing the lead letters one by one into the trays was a time-consuming and filthy task, the only part of newspapering she found tedious. It was always a relief when the trays were neatly filled and ready for ink.

  The front door opened and a young man, his thick blond hair wind-tousled, peered in. He grinned. “Sophie Robillard Caldwell.”

  “Robbie? Oh my goodness.” Her heart lifted at the sight of her only childhood friend. All grown up now, of course, but she’d know Robbie Whiting anywhere. He’d often accompanied his mother to the orphanage and kept Sophie company while the other children played or studied. Together they had roamed the hills in search of arrowheads, picked wild blackberries along the riverbank, shared penny candy from Mr. Pruitt’s mercantile, and reveled in the dime novels Robbie bought from Mr. Chastain’s bookshop. Her mixed-up parentage, whatever it was, had never mattered one whit to Robbie. For that alone, she was prepared to love him forever.

  Robbie swept her into a bear hug, twirling her around until she felt dizzy. “Mother said Miss Ada wrote her that you were coming back here. I’d planned to surprise you at the train station, but I had to make a trip up to Muddy Hollow, and then a couple of days ago one of my flock fell ill and I—”

  “Wait.” She drew back and looked up at him. “One of your fl
ock? The last I heard, you were reading law in Nashville.”

  He set her on her feet. “I was close to joining up with a couple of other lawyers once my studies were finished, but it turns out God had a completely different agenda. I’m the pastor here in town.”

  His laugh brought to mind the Robbie who had reveled in their childhood escapades. He’d idolized Wyatt Caldwell too, and more than once declared that his aim in life was to own a ranch in Texas, just like Wyatt’s. For the first year after Ada and Wyatt took her to live with them there, she had hoped Robbie would visit, but he never had. And like most childhood friendships interrupted by distance, theirs had faded away. Now, looking into his bright blue eyes, she felt her old affection for him returning.

  She took his arm and drew him into the office. “I’m on my way to visit Carrie Rutledge, but I’ve time for tea if you do.”

  “I’d love to stay and catch up, but Ethelinda and I promised to visit Deborah Patterson this afternoon. Her husband, Daniel, was the minister at the church up until the week before he took sick and passed on. I promised him I’d look after her.”

  Sophie’s head swam. “I can’t believe you’re a preacher.”

  “Well, I am. As of last September.”

  “Good gravy. And Ethelinda is—”

  “My wife. Also as of last September.” Another burst of laughter. “I’ve had a pretty busy year.”

  “Apparently so. Why didn’t I know any of this, Robbie Whiting?”

  “Why didn’t I know you were off in Dallas learning the newspaper game? Mother mentioned it only a few weeks ago when she learned you were coming back here.” He smiled down at her. “Life hardly ever turns out the way we plan, does it?”

  “Don’t I know it? Mrs. Mills—she was head of my department at the paper in Dallas—offered me a job there last December. I said yes, but the longer I thought about it, the more I felt compelled to come back here.”

  “After the way you were treated at the orphanage?” He leaned against her desk and crossed his arms. “I don’t understand.”

  “It didn’t make any sense to Wyatt and Ada either. But I couldn’t get the notion out of my head, so here I am.”

  He nodded. “I hope things will be different for you now. Lots of changes have taken place in Hickory Ridge since we were children.”

  “Yes, Blue Smoke is causing quite a stir, and not just locally. Even our paper ran a piece about it when construction first began.”

  “I was thinking of the orphanage. You know it’s closed now.”

  “I went by there the other day. I couldn’t help myself.” She shrugged. “Even with all the broken windows and the locked gate, I still felt like Mrs. Lowell might stick her head out at any moment and yell at me to stop dawdling and get on inside.”

  “She could be fierce.” He paused. “You remember the Wilcox children? A boy and girl who came here after their parents drowned?”

  “I remember them. Jesse and . . .”

  “Audrey. I ran into Jesse over in Knoxville last year. He works for a druggist now. His sister is married. I don’t know where she’s living. But Jesse told me Mrs. Lowell died of the yellow fever back in seventy-nine.”

  He picked up a book from her desk and flipped it open. “I remember when Ada bought this for you at Mr. Chastain’s shop. I guess you heard he got married a few years back. Some fancy lady from New Orleans. But it didn’t last long. I was away at school, but Mother told me his wife jumped on the train one day and never came back.”

  “That’s terrible. Mr. Chastain is a good man.”

  “He is.” Robbie set the book aside. “The strange thing is that after church last week, Lucy Partridge told Mother that Mrs. Chastain has written to the Verandah, asking for her old room back. Apparently she stayed there before she got married.”

  “Maybe she’s had second thoughts and wants Mr. Chastain back.”

  “After all this time?” Robbie shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “Remember how he read stories to us on Founders Day? And showed us his sleight-of-hand tricks? I should go by and see him.”

  “Oh, but that’s another big change. Mr. Chastain left town shortly after his wife took off—sold the bookshop to one of Jasper Pruitt’s cousins and never looked back. My folks bought it from Jasper’s kin after Pa’s accident.”

  Sophie nodded. “Ada told me about that. I was sorry to hear it. Mr. Whiting was always kind to me.”

  “It was pretty bad,” Robbie said. “A load of timber slipped off a skip loader and pinned him underneath it. For a while it looked like he might lose his leg, but eventually it healed. He never could work the lumberyard again, though. He sits at a desk now. Hates it. Mother runs the bookshop.”

  “Mrs. Whiting is a bookseller now? Ada didn’t tell me that.”

  “Mother took it over only recently. She seems to like it.”

  Setting the book aside, he peered over her shoulder into the back room, where the printing press stood amid a jumble of crates she’d recently unpacked. “You know how to work that thing?”

  “Of course. I started hanging around the newspaper office back home when I was twelve or thirteen. Mr. Hadley—he’s the owner of the Inquirer—showed me how to load type into the tray, but he wouldn’t let me actually run the press till I was older.” She grinned. “It’s a dirty, tedious job, and slower than Christmas. Soon as I start making a profit, I’m going to look into replacing this old press with a more modern one.” She tamped down a stab of uncertainty. “Assuming I actually make a profit. Sometimes I wake up and ask myself why on earth I came back here. Maybe I’m foolish for even trying.”

  “Not at all. I’m certain the Lord has a purpose for it.”

  She gazed past his shoulder to the street, quiet now in the cool spring afternoon. “Do you really believe that, Robbie? That there is a purpose to everything?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.” He smiled down at her. “I really have to go, but one of these days I want you to meet my wife.”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Come to services next Sunday. I’ll save you a seat in the first pew.”

  He left the office whistling and jogged across the street to his waiting rig. Sophie watched as he turned the rig for home, her mind whirling. Heavenly days, but Hickory Ridge was all ajumble. People of every stripe milling around town like ants in a hill. Houses going up every which way. Mrs. Lowell dead and gone. Sweet Mr. Chastain all brokenhearted, no doubt, and off to who knew where, while his wife was on her way back to town.

  Sophie frowned. Why would the former Mrs. Chastain come back here after so long a time? There was no accounting for human behavior and no telling what might happen next. But one thing was for sure: Lucy Partridge wouldn’t have room for her at the Verandah. With Blue Smoke set to open in a matter of weeks, every room was taken or already reserved.

  She grabbed her hat and shawl, locked the office, and headed for Mr. Tanner’s livery. His rates were outrageous, but the Rutledge farm was too far to walk. Farther along the street, Eli McCracken emerged from his office and headed for Miss Hattie’s. Sophie’s stomach groaned. What she wouldn’t give for one of Miss Hattie’s legendary Sunday dinners. But Carrie Rutledge was expecting her.

  She entered the livery, breathing in the familiar, dusty scent of hay, horses, and manure. “Mr. Tanner?”

  He shuffled to the front of the building, wiping his hands on a faded towel. “Miss Caldwell. What can I do for you?”

  “A horse and rig, please. That little chestnut mare I had last week will be perfect.”

  “She’s a beauty all right, but I sold her yesterday to Blue Smoke. Mr. Rutledge usually takes care of anything related to the Blue Smoke horses, but Mr. Heyward himself come down from his mountaintop for a change and made me a right good offer for her. He said she’ll make a good addition to that fancy riding stable they’re building up there.”

  She fumbled in her reticule for her cash. “Mr. Heyward doesn’t come to town that often?”

&nb
sp; “Not hardly at all. Usually that young redheaded fellow shows up at the bank or the mercantile, but occasionally the boss man makes an appearance.”

  Sophie nodded and secured her hat against a sudden gust of late-March wind. “I’d love to stay and chat, but—”

  “Oh, sure. You need a horse and buggy. Well, I’ve got Miss Pearl over there.” He jerked his thumb toward a silver-gray horse munching hay, her tail swishing flies. “She ain’t the fastest thing on four legs, but she’s reliable.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  While the liveryman harnessed Miss Pearl, Sophie retrieved Carrie’s letter from her pocket and reread the directions to the Rutledge farm. The train whistle sounded just as Mr. Tanner led the horse and rig into the thin spring sunlight and helped Sophie inside. “Where you headed?”

  “The Rutledge place. Mrs. Rutledge says it’s adjacent to Mr. Gilman’s. I hope it won’t be too hard to find.”

  “You’ll see the turnoff five miles or so past the train depot. The road’s in bad shape, though. We had a lot of rain last month, and the ruts are pretty deep.” He patted the side of the old rig, which had seen better days. “Just watch out that you don’t damage my equipment. I’d hate to charge you extra for repairs.”

  Sophie flicked the reins and headed out of town. The livery-man’s mention of Ethan Heyward had set her reporter’s mind to working again. Why did Mr. Heyward keep to himself? Was something untoward going on at Blue Smoke, or was he merely one of those men, like Wyatt, who liked to keep a close eye on his interests?

  She passed a Negro family on their way home from church, the women and girls dressed in bright calicos, the men and boys in denim pants and bleached white shirts. All were barefoot. A couple of the young girls offered a shy wave as their wagon and her rig negotiated the rutted road. By the time she finally arrived at the Rutledges’ place, her dress was coated in a thin layer of dust and her mouth was parched.