by Dorothy Love
“Of course my daughter’s friends are always welcome here,” Mrs. Gilman said. “But I do hope you won’t monopolize Sabrina’s time. There are several young men here who—”
“Come on, Sophie,” Gillie said in a rush. “Let’s get some barbecue before it’s all gone.”
They filled their plates and settled down on the porch steps to eat. While Sophie devoured slices of barbecued pork, mounds of mashed potatoes, and fruit compote served in a tiny hand-painted cup, Gillie regaled her with stories of her rounds with Dr. Spencer and her dream of opening an infirmary in town.
“Hickory Ridge is growing so much, Doc Spencer can’t always get to everyone who needs him in a timely fashion.” Gillie polished off her slice of pie and drained her glass. “And often mothers put off sending for the doctor for themselves. By the time Dr. Spencer sees them, they’ve gotten worse. We need a place where they can come and stay for treatment if necessary. I can handle the routine things, and Doc will have time for the more serious cases.” She stood. “Come on. Ready to ride?”
They left their dishes in the kitchen, changed clothes in Gillie’s room, and headed to the barn. Gillie lifted the bar on the door and they went inside. A sleek brown mare, her soft eyes fringed with thick lashes, bobbed her head and snuffled as they passed. Sophie breathed in the familiar smells of horses, hay, and liniment and paused to rest her cheek against the horse’s muzzle, missing home and everything in it. Why had she insisted on coming back here, so far from everyone who loved her?
Well, it was too late now. She wasn’t one to give up easily. She wouldn’t go home until she’d accomplished what she set out to do.
“Look around if you wish,” Gillie said. “I’ll have Old Peter tack up a couple of mounts, and that will take awhile. He’s ancient, but he loves it here, and Papa hasn’t the heart to retire him.” She disappeared into the dimness of the long barn.
Sophie stayed put and spoke quietly to the mare, running her hands over the animal’s sleek, warm sides. The discomfort of Mrs. Gilman’s cool reception vanished, replaced with the sense of peace that being around horses always brought her.
“Well, look who’s here. Our newspaperwoman.”
Sophie spun around, one hand over her heart. “Mr. Heyward. You startled me.”
In a few long strides he covered the distance between them. “And you startled me, Miss Caldwell, with your editorial in the Gazette.”
“Oh, that.” She patted the horse. “Well, I’m sorry if I offended you, but it’s my job to report the facts. And to remark upon them when I feel it’s warranted.”
“Thus giving readers the benefit of your vast experience.” His voice was deadly serious, but a glint of amusement flashed in his eyes.
Was he making fun of her? She plucked a currycomb from the stall shelf and began grooming the horse. She hadn’t meant to sound so didactic, but heavenly days, what did Mr. Heyward think she was supposed to do? Ignore the circumstances at the resort just to keep his good opinion?
He held out his hand, allowing the horse to sniff. “Of course, I can’t tell you what to write, but your comments left the wrong impression. I’m not hiding anything up at Blue Smoke, and I didn’t much care for the insinuation.”
“I understand a couple of men died in fights up there. I’m only trying to prevent more bloodshed.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What happened to your high-and-mighty journalistic standards? Or are you now in the dirt with those sensationalist hacks who make up their so-called facts?”
She returned the currycomb to the shelf. “I did not make it up. One of your men told me about it the night I rode up there with Sheriff McCracken. The man did not tell me his name.” She glared at him. “Apparently he’s too afraid to speak out. He did tell me that fights are common among the workers. It seems to me like a dangerous situation.”
He fixed her with a steady gaze. “I don’t like it either, but human nature is what it is. So long as the coloreds and the Irish hate each other and they both hate the Chinese, there will be disagreements. I’m trying to keep the lid on things until Blue Smoke is finished. Editorials like yours don’t help matters.”
She waited, one hand resting on the mare’s side.
Mr. Heyward propped one booted foot on the bottom rail of the stall door. “Besides, the situation is temporary. Another couple of months and most of them can go home. Problem solved.”
“A lot can happen in the meantime.”
The mare blew out and danced sideways in her stall, and he soothed her with a quiet word, his eyes on Sophie. “What would you have me do, Miss Caldwell?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the men need something to do in the evenings. Something other than drinking whiskey and insulting each other.”
“Maybe you’d like to have them join hands and sing hymns.”
“It’s better than firing weapons and beating up on each other with fists and broken bottles, don’t you think?”
Just then Gillie and a gray-haired Negro man came out leading two horses. “Ready, Sophie?”
“How about if we make a pact?” Mr. Heyward kept his eyes fixed on Sophie. “Don’t tell me how to run my resort, and I won’t tell you how to run your newspaper.”
“Mr. Heyward, I assure you, I—”
He jammed his fists into his pockets. “I’ll leave you to your riding.”
He turned and stalked off, leaving her staring after him.
SIX
Sophie pressed her palms to her tired eyes and sighed. After weeks of waiting, the fancy paper she’d ordered had finally arrived. This morning she’d begun printing Mr. Heyward’s stationery, only to have the jobber press break smack-dab in the middle of the run. Repairing it had stolen an hour of work time. Now it was afternoon and the entire edition of this week’s Gazette still awaited printing.
She rose and placed the finished sheets and envelopes in a large box for delivery to Blue Smoke, then headed to the back room to start the steam press. At least Mr. Heyward would have no reason to fault her for this week’s editorial, a call for the establishment of a women’s and children’s infirmary in Hickory Ridge. Gillie was busy marshaling support for her idea. Robbie Whiting would do what he could, of course, and the Gilmans would support their daughter because the project meant everything to her. Perhaps Sheriff McCracken would back the idea too. According to Wyatt and Ada, he’d lost his wife to illness much too soon.
Outside, the train whistle shrieked. A buggy and a freight wagon rattled toward the depot. Sophie checked the ink supply and loaded the first sheet of newsprint onto the platen. She started the steam press, and the first proof slid onto the tray. She read through it, checking for errors.
The ad for Jasper Pruitt’s mercantile occupied the bottom quarter of the page, advertising a new shipment of sewing notions and canning jars. The merchant’s appearance to place an ad that first week had surprised Sophie. Years ago he’d voiced constant disapproval of her and had done everything possible to discourage Ada from having anything to do with the likes of her. Yet he continued to advertise with her, week after week. Perhaps Robbie was right and attitudes in town had changed.
She finished proofing the first page and paused to wipe her face and get a drink of water. A light breeze drifted through the open window, stirring the bouquet of violets Carrie Rutledge had dropped off on her trip to town yesterday. Sophie added water to the vase, admiring the delicate lavender petals and translucent green leaves, a welcome contrast to the inky, dust-laden composing room.
A face appeared at the open window. “Miss?”
Sophie set down her glass and motioned him to the door. He came in, and she recognized the man who had spoken to her the night of the fight at Blue Smoke. “May I help you?”
He sagged against her desk and shook his head. “I reckon I’m beyond help now. Mr. Heyward just fired me.” He looked up at her, his eyes suspiciously bright, and she realized he was near her o
wn age. In the darkness and confusion at Blue Smoke that night, she had thought he was older.
She picked up a rag and wiped her fingers. “Why would he fire you?”
“He found out I was the one who talked to you that night. He said he doesn’t have room for me now up at Blue Smoke and I shouldn’t have talked to you.”
“That’s ridiculous. Working for Mr. Heyward does not preclude your right to talk to anybody you want to. Good gravy, you aren’t his slave.” She plopped onto her chair. What was wrong with Ethan Heyward that made him feel he had to control everything and everybody?
“That’s what I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. He paid me and told me to clear out.”
“I’m truly sorry. I never meant to cause you any trouble. But I doubt there is anything I can do for you, Mr.—”
“Stanhope. Caleb Stanhope. And yes, ma’am, there is something you can do.”
She waited, one brow raised in question.
“You can give me a job.”
Ethan paused on the dirt trail leading upward from the resort and waited for his breathing to slow. The sounds of dozens of hammers echoed through the thick stand of trees, drowning out the calm burbling of the stream running parallel to the path.
He took off his jacket and sat down on a fallen log. Already he regretted firing Caleb Stanhope. Caleb was a good worker and one of the best finish carpenters on the crew, but he was quick tempered and loose-tongued. Since Miss Caldwell’s editorial last month, the men had grown ever more restless and outspoken.
Last night Stanhope and a group of others had confronted the two new Chinese cooks with complaints about the food. Ethan happened upon the situation just in time to avert another melee. True, Stanhope didn’t start it. One of the Chinamen threw the first punch. But Ethan depended on the cooks to keep the crews fed. Stanhope, despite his skill, was not so irreplaceable. He had to go.
Ethan studied a delicate trillium growing beside the log and sighed. It was all Sophie Caldwell’s fault. How could such a willowy little thing stir up so much trouble? Still, he found himself devouring each edition of the Gazette and waiting impatiently for the next one. Miss S. R. Caldwell was a gifted writer who could tackle any subject from wildflowers to national politics and make readers care about it. If only she would stick to those topics and forget about the problems at Blue Smoke.
He took out his leather notebook and flipped to the sketch he’d started last night when sleep eluded him. Horace had mentioned that one of his colleagues back in Baltimore planned to build a new house on the shore. Ethan wasn’t sure yet just how he could approach the man about designing his new home, but memories of growing up along the Chesapeake had fueled his ideas for a long, low building with plenty of windows opened to the water. A house on the shore had been his Aunt Eulalie’s dearest wish, but he’d been too young and too poor to fulfill it.
He balanced his notebook on his knee and watched a couple of blue jays darting through the trees. If it hadn’t been for Horace, maybe Ethan would still be knocking around Baltimore, aimless and angry at the tragedy that had befallen his family, picking up work on the crab boats or digging in the potato fields just up the road. He was grateful for the chance to escape his dead-end life, and he’d worked hard to justify Horace’s faith in him. If only the man wasn’t so stubborn when it came to getting his way about everything.
Just this morning they’d had another set-to about the long-delayed railway passenger car. Italian leather, Texas leather—what difference did it make? Their guests wouldn’t notice. But Horace had gotten his dander up about it all over again. And once again, Ethan had nearly lost his temper.
Shaking off the memory of Horace’s red-faced tantrum and his own less-than-temperate response, Ethan bent to his work, flipping the pages of his notebook as new ideas emerged. The quiet stream, the pure sunlight filtering through the stands of oak and hickory, calmed him and soon he found himself thinking of Sophie Caldwell again.
No doubt she’d get her dander up too when she found out he’d fired her informant, but that was how it had to be. Maybe she’d be over it by the time the reception for the press rolled around. He was eager to show her the resort once the last of the furnishings and the artwork was in place. Somehow it mattered to him that she respect and admire his accomplishments. Which made no sense at all. But the feeling lodged inside him, as immutable as the green mountains rising up behind him.
Leaving her rented horse and rig tethered near the riding stables, Sophie walked up the path toward the main entrance to Blue Smoke. Surely once she explained the situation to Mr. Heyward, he’d give Caleb Stanhope his job back. It was the only fair thing to do.
She passed through a shady stand of old oaks and stopped to watch a squirrel, tail flicking, jump from branch to branch. Something moved on the path and she peered through the thick undergrowth, her heart thudding. Wyatt had warned her about bears and the dangerous feral pigs that sometimes showed themselves in the area. The last thing she wanted was to surprise one of the ferocious critters.
Through the tangle of bushes and vines she saw another path leading upward and the gleam of metal. The roof of an old shack? Curious, she followed the narrow path farther into the forest. The path widened, and then she stepped into a clearing where a dozen windowless tin-roofed shacks stood cheek by jowl. The acrid smell of a recently doused campfire mixed with the stench of an open sewer, the smell so overpowering her eyes watered. A plaid shirt draped over a bush undulated in the spring breeze. Beneath the trees stood a stack of empty metal pails and a wooden water bucket.
She stood still, listening to the far-off sounds of hammers and saws and the occasional shout. So this was where Mr. Heyward’s work crew lived.
She crossed the clearing, her shoes sinking into the spongy ground, and peered through an open doorway into a shack. Piles of blankets and clothes littered the dirt floor. Tools were stacked willy-nilly against the rough boarded walls. In one corner sat a banjo and a wooden chest; in another, a pile of dime novels and tattered magazines. A couple of candles in empty tin cans seemed to be the only source of light.
Sophie’s stomach clenched. No wonder the men were in a constant state of anger. Who wouldn’t be, living in such primitive conditions while spending their days building a palace that only the wealthiest people would ever see. The contrast was astonishing. And troubling. Why hadn’t Mr. Heyward’s partner provided better quarters for the men without whom his dream never could have materialized?
The sound of the supply-train whistle reverberated through the trees. She retraced her steps and hurried along the overgrown path. Something rustled in the bushes and she halted, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. A small child wearing only a filthy, sagging diaper darted into the path.
“Oh goodness.” Sophie knelt and opened her arms. “Where in the world did you come from, darling?”
The little girl sucked her thumb and stared unblinking at Sophie.
“Are you lost? What’s your name?” Sophie rose and pawed through her reticule, but she couldn’t come up with anything that would tempt or delight a small child.
“She ain’t lost.”
Sophie spun around to find a young woman in a ragged calico dress staring back at her. “You scared me.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll stop sniffing around up here and leave us be.”
Sophie took in the young woman’s haggard face and febrile eyes. The unmistakable smell of vomit came off her in waves.
“You’re sick.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with me.” She picked up the toddler and settled the child on her hip.
“You need a doctor.” Sophie fumbled for her pen and notebook. She scribbled Gillie’s name, tore out the page, and pressed it into the woman’s hand. “This is my friend. She assists our town doctor, and she very much wants to help mothers and children. Will you go and see her?”
“Mind your own business.” The woman wadded the paper and tossed it into the bushes. The baby wailed.
; “My name is Sophie. I own the newspaper in town. Please tell me your name and where you live, and I’ll send Miss Gilman to you. You must get well, or else who will look after your baby?”
The woman laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Do I look like I got money for a doctor?”
Sophie’s heart ached as she looked at the weeping child. Had her own mother, whoever she was, been this desperate too? Desperate enough eventually to give up her child forever?
“I’ll take care of the bill, I promise. Just go and see Miss Gilman. Or Doc Spencer.”
The woman shifted the child to her other hip. “I reckon you mean well, but you don’t know how things are up here. We don’t have much, it’s true. But my husband couldn’t hold his head up high if I was to take charity.”
“He’d rather you’d stay sick than admit he needs help?” Sophie clenched her fists. “How chivalrous of him.”
“I got to go. And you ought to git on off this mountain and mind your own business.”
Sophie frowned. How on earth did Gillie suppose people like this woman would come to an infirmary even if it was free? Distance and lack of money seemed to be less an issue than pride. How could Gillie hope to overcome such thinking?
She watched the woman disappear along the trail, then turned and headed for the resort. She thought about Robbie’s belief that God had a purpose in bringing her back to Hickory Ridge. Maybe that was true, because from where she stood, a lot of things in this town needed fixing.
She reached the entrance to Blue Smoke and stopped to check her hat and brush the dirt from the hem of her dress. Ada would say it was poor manners to arrive unannounced, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Miss Caldwell?”
She looked up to see Mr. Heyward striding toward her. His hat was askew, his spectacles smudged, and his jacket sprigged with bits of foliage. Somehow his less than impeccable looks made him seem more approachable. Even though she was perturbed at him for firing Caleb and incensed at the deplorable conditions in the work camp, she couldn’t help returning his smile. “Mr. Heyward. I was hoping to find you in. May I have a word with you?”