by Dorothy Love
Dr. Spencer cleared his throat. “You may be right about that, Mr. Blakely. But all it takes is one outbreak to foment a disaster. I’m sure you’ve heard about the deadly yellow fever epidemics that have plagued different parts of this state from time to time. An outbreak of influenza or typhoid could decimate our region just as quickly.”
From her spot in the front of the room, Gillie nodded, undoubtedly remembering Miss Cook, her heroine from the yellow fever epidemic in Memphis. Sophie sent her friend an encouraging smile, and Gillie went on.
“Though I’m most concerned about women and children, an infirmary will benefit everyone—including you, Mr. Blakely, not to mention the men at the mill. Someone is always sustaining a cut or a broken bone or a bad sprain. Isn’t that true, Mr. Whiting?”
Sage Whiting nodded. “True enough, I reckon, but most menfolk don’t like being looked after by a female that isn’t family. I reckon we’d rather take our chances and wait till Doc Spencer is free.”
Mariah Whiting turned to gape at her husband. “Why, Sage Whiting, I never suspected you of harboring prejudice against the female gender.”
“Now, Mariah—”
“Miss Gilman’s infirmary is a wonderful idea, and I believe I speak for most of the ladies in town when I say we will do all in our power to see that it succeeds.” Mrs. Whiting caught Mr. Blakely’s eye. “I do hope you will reconsider your objection, sir.”
Mr. Blakely folded his hands over his ample stomach and blew out a long breath. “I can see I’m outnumbered here, and I must say I’m disappointed. Hickory Ridge was dying on the vine before I bought up that land and started building Blue Smoke. I’ve invested hundreds of thousands of dollars, and this is the thanks I get.”
“We haven’t forgotten,” Mr. Talbot said. “And we do appreciate Blue Smoke. But we’ve got a Christian duty to help the sick and the injured, and if this young lady’s infirmary makes it easier for folks to get doctored when they need it, then I say we give it a try.”
Jasper Pruitt shifted in his chair. “Are we ready to vote yet? Because I am about to expire from this infernal heat.”
Mayor Scott had been flipping through the stack of official-looking papers he’d brought. Finally he looked up. “Miss Gilman, we appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but I’ve looked at this budget again and I am sorry to say, we don’t dare deplete the emergency fund.”
“I see.” Gillie’s voice wavered, but her expression remained serene. “Will you give me the building then, Mr. Scott? I’ll trust God to provide for the repairs.”
The vote came swiftly, four to one, and the ladies broke into applause. Gillie squeezed past a knot of ladies standing next to Mr. Blakely and rushed over to embrace Sophie. “We did it!”
“You did it, my friend. I only brought the situation to everybody’s attention.”
The resort owner fished a cheroot from his pocket and bit off the end. “So you did, Miss Caldwell. So you did.” He waved his unlit cheroot in the air. “You and that little newspaper of yours have managed to stir up a lot of trouble in an astonishingly short period of time.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Blakely. The way I see it, a modern newspaper should be an advocate for the citizens it serves. It’s my job to call attention to a town’s problems as well as its achievements, not merely to serve as a mouthpiece for one politician or another as in the old days.”
She paused, suddenly embarrassed. She hadn’t meant to sound so pompous. But heavenly days, the man was irritating.
He shook his head. “You aren’t old enough to remember the old days.”
“But I studied them. I want the Gazette to be much better than that.”
He pointed his cigar at her. “You’d be much better off sticking to articles like the one you wrote last week on cultivating lilies. My wife quite enjoyed that one.”
“I’m glad she found it entertaining.”
“Don’t push me, Miss Caldwell.” He said it with a smile, but the expression in his eyes was hard as granite. “I will push back.”
SIXTEEN
July 16, 1886
Sherman, Texas
Dear Miss Caldwell,
I trust you will remember our most pleasant conversation the evening of the press reception at Blue Smoke. Since returning home, I have received three letters from my cousin Deborah, each containing clippings of your newspaper pieces. I especially enjoyed your article on the novels of the prolific Mr. Mark Twain, and although I regret to say I have not read his most recent offering, I certainly agree that The Prince and the Pauper is certainly one of his most entertaining works. Likewise was I captivated by your article on ladies taking up the sport of bicycling. Though I consider myself quite well traveled and open-minded, I must say I cannot imagine engaging in such a reckless pastime. However, times change, and we must change with them.
Your editorials in support of an infirmary for your town were well reasoned and articulate, especially considering your tender years. It is my sincere hope that by the time this letter reaches you, the town council will have reached a favorable decision.
Because I believe so strongly that your work deserves a wider readership, I have taken the liberty of sending these clippings along to Mr. McClure as a possible addition to his news syndicate. While I cannot speak for him, I believe you have a very good chance of writing for him, and you will of course be paid a tidy sum for each piece published.
It was a pleasure meeting you, my dear, and I do hope our paths will cross again.
Most sincerely yours,
Lydia McPherson
Sophie folded the letter and put it in her desk drawer. In the weeks since it had arrived, she had read it so many times that she knew every word by heart. How thrilling that Mrs. McPherson thought her accomplished enough to write for the syndicate. The extra cash would be welcome. But could she keep up with running the Gazette and her printing business and still find time to write articles for Mr. McClure?
Footsteps sounded on the boardwalk. A dark-haired woman in a bright-yellow dress cupped her hands to the window and peered inside. Sophie frowned. Another mountain woman seeking medical help?
She opened the door. “May I help you?”
The woman clutched her reticule to her chest. “I . . . You’re Miss Caldwell.”
“Yes. Have we met?”
Sophie stood aside to let her visitor enter. Instead the woman turned abruptly and fled. Sophie watched her rush down the street, dodging farm wives, children, dogs, and freight wagons until she disappeared into the alley beside Sheriff McCracken’s office.
Sophie closed the door and returned to her desk, intending to finish an article on the upcoming harvest festival, but the strange encounter had so unnerved her that she couldn’t think.
She went into the back room where Caleb kept his coffeepot and helped herself to a cup of the bitter, lukewarm brew. Perhaps the woman had intended to place a notice in the newspaper, then changed her mind. Nothing to get upset about, especially when there was plenty else to occupy her thoughts. For one thing, her outing with Ethan was coming up. And though she had not wavered in her determination to set the record straight concerning her background, finding the right words was proving harder than she anticipated. Would he react with disgust? Anger? Or would he somehow understand?
Then there was the matter of Horace Blakely. Just yesterday she’d run into him at the post office, and he’d glared at her as if she’d stolen his last dime. It was ridiculous for the richest man in three counties to be such a dog in the manger about the orphanage. Clearly he was more upset at having his wishes thwarted than at losing a building he had no immediate plans to use. She took another sip of coffee. Why was it that most successful people, instead of being grateful for their good fortune, were often the most mean-spirited?
“Sophie?” Caleb came in, a sheet of paper in his hand. “I took a stab at writing that story about Mrs. Tanner’s prize tomatoes.” He blushed. “It’s prob’ly not very good. I was always bet
ter at arithmetic than writing. But I like the idea of being where important things are happening and being the first to tell about it.”
She set down her cup and went back to her desk. “Me too. Wyatt always told me that having a heart for your work is as important as knowing how to do it. As long as you love being a reporter, you can learn the tricks of the trade. Let’s have a look.”
She picked up her reading spectacles, hooked them over her ears, and scanned the page.
Aside from a few typographical errors, the beginning wasn’t bad. But Caleb had made a typical beginner’s mistake and stopped asking questions before the story was complete. She handed it back to him. “It’s good that you remembered what I told you about getting some direct quotations from Mrs. Tanner. Folks like to hear people tell their stories in their own words. And our readers will enjoy learning about how Mrs. Tanner’s grandmother taught her to grow tomatoes. But—”
“I forgot to ask her exactly how she makes them grow so big.”
“Who, what, when, where, why. And how.” She ticked the words on her fingers. “Answer those questions, and your story will be complete.” She handed the page back to him. “Want to give it another try?”
He shook his head. “Not right now. I need to finish printing next month’s menus for Blue Smoke. Mr. Heyward’s secretary was in here yesterday all in a huff because they weren’t done yet.”
“Well, there was no need for him to be upset. I told Mr. O’Brien when he dropped the order off that we couldn’t get to it before today.”
Caleb shrugged and headed to the back. “He wanted it right away. Acted like he was mad when I told him he’d have to wait. Rich people are always in a hurry, I reckon.”
“I don’t think Mr. O’Brien is rich.”
“Compared to me he is.” Caleb’s shoulders sagged.
“Is something wrong?”
He turned to face her. “You know how much I love working here and how much I want to learn newspapering.”
“Yes, and you’re making a fine start.”
“But I can’t support Ma and my brothers on what you’re paying me.”
“I’d pay you more if I could afford to.”
“I’m not blaming you. But the truth is, this job is a luxury I can’t afford. I’m thinking about asking Mr. Heyward if he’ll take me back on the maintenance crew up at Blue Smoke. If not, maybe I can get on at the mill.”
“But, Caleb, I depend upon you week to week to help me with the typesetting and print jobs and collecting the advertising notices.”
“I know it, and I’m sorry, but I have to feed my family. Ma’s learned to manage the farm real well, but there’s never enough money for everything we need. Joe’s sick a lot. His lungs are weak. And James Henry is too young to work. So that leaves me.” His breath hitched. “Maybe when they’re old enough to look after themselves, I can come back and take up newspapering again.” He attempted a smile. “Who knows? Maybe by then you’ll have a press that doesn’t fall apart ten times a day.”
Sophie removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. Just when things were going so well, now she’d have to start over. Train someone else to mix ink, run the printing press, set the type, coddle the temperamental jobber press. Where would she find such a person? Maybe Ethan would know. She’d ask on Friday when they finally made their planned trip to the top of the ridge to scout for a photographer’s perch. A week of rain, Ethan’s obligations at Blue Smoke, and some pressing deadlines of her own had forced them to postpone the excursion again and again. At last the weather and both their schedules had cooperated.
“Hey, Sophie?” Caleb paused, one hand on the door frame. “Don’t go to frettin’ just yet. I have to find another job first, and it could take awhile. I’ll give you plenty of notice.”
Sighing, she tucked her order book and pen into her reticule and pinned on her hat, a leghorn straw trimmed with pink silk rosebuds and white netting. “I’m going out for a while. I may as well start collecting from our advertising customers now. Get used to it.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Nothing to it. It just takes time is all. Most folks like to visit awhile, especially Miss Hattie and Mrs. Pruitt over at the dress shop. Just don’t let Mrs. Pruitt get started on her childhood up in Muddy Hollow. She remembers everything, and she can go on and on.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Sophie left the office and walked along the boardwalk to the mercantile, jingling the bell as she entered. She smiled at a woman and her young daughter who were busy selecting fabric from bolts scattered across the wooden table at the back of the store. She stood aside for a couple of farmers who were shuffling up and down the aisles, selecting nails, saw blades, lengths of rope, and sacks of feed.
Mr. Pruitt emerged from behind the meat counter, wiping his hands on his blood-spattered apron. “Miss Caldwell. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve come to collect your advertisement for next week’s issue.” She opened her reticule and took out her order book and pen. “Since we’re less than a month away from the harvest festival, I suggest you feature your dress goods and sewing notions and such.” She smiled. “Every lady in town wants something pretty to wear to the festival.”
He frowned. “I ain’t set much store by that celebration since they moved it from October to September. September just don’t feel like the fall of the year to me. You know what I mean?”
“I do. But in church last week Mrs. Rutledge told me the town council changed it to September so it wouldn’t interfere with Race Day in October.”
He shrugged. “That was the excuse, but mostly it was because Horace Blakely wanted it moved. I didn’t vote for it, but Hiram Scott and the rest of ’em didn’t blink an eye. Fifty years of tradition wiped out faster than you can say Jack Robinson.”
She nodded. “About your advertising notice, Mr. Pruitt, I—”
“I’m not placing an ad this week.”
“Oh. What about the next week, then? We may as well go ahead and write it up while I’m here and save us both some time.”
Mr. Pruitt grabbed a feather duster from beneath the counter and ran it over a stack of tin cans. “Truth is, I won’t be advertising in your paper anymore. And neither will my wife, so you don’t need to make a trip to her dress shop.”
“But why? Has my work been unsatisfactory? Is there some problem with the placement of your notice? I’ll be glad to—”
One of the farmers dumped a sack of feed and a box of nails onto the counter. “Jasper? You want to add this to my tab? I’ll pay you next week, soon as I take my sweet corn crop in.”
Mr. Pruitt seemed relieved to have something else to do. He took his time adding up the bill and boxing up the man’s order. Finally the man left, and the mercantile owner turned back to Sophie. “I’m sorry. I still think a lot of Wyatt and Miss Ada, and for her sake if nothing else I wish you good luck with that newspaper of yours. I know you want to make them proud. But I can’t help you no more. That’s all I got to say.”
Sophie left the mercantile, her thoughts racing. What could have changed Mr. Pruitt’s mind? Did it have something to do with her personally, or was something else to blame? Losing the revenue from his weekly notices was a blow, but perhaps she could convince her other customers to purchase bigger ads to make up the difference.
Two hours later, though, she sat at her desk in the Gazette office hot, tired, and utterly discouraged. The bakery, the Hickory Ridge Inn, even Miss Hattie had all canceled their accounts. She pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples and fought a wave of panic. Even if she didn’t replace Caleb and took on every task herself, the income from subscriptions alone would not sustain the paper until the end of the year. After such a promising start, she had failed.
And she didn’t know why.
SEVENTEEN
“God does not abide liars, Sophie. They wind up in the fiery lakes of burning sulphur, same as murderers and cowards. Same as thieves. Is that what you want? To burn in the everlasting fl
ames?”
Sophie woke, her heart pounding, her nightdress stuck to her hot skin. She sat up in her bed waiting for the dream to dissipate. It had seemed so real. She was eight years old again, and Mrs. Lowell was standing over her bed at the orphanage, insisting that she confess to taking a cornhusk doll belonging to another girl. She hadn’t stolen it, but anytime something disappeared, she was the first to be blamed.
Too shaken now to sleep, she threw off the sheet and lit the oil lamp, her gaze seeking the familiar contours of her hotel room. The flickering light fell on the dull gleam of her silver hairbrush on the dresser, the blue-and-white ewer and basin on the stand by the bed, her hatboxes stacked neatly in the corner. She let out a long breath and crossed to her door.
A seam of light brightened the hallway and soft voices carried from the room across the hall. Mabel and Merribelle were still up, no doubt gossiping about the goings-on up at Blue Smoke. Merribelle laughed, and Sophie felt a pang of sadness mixed with pure old envy. The two young women shared everything.
Until Gillie came along, she had never had a true woman friend, someone who could share her fears and her confidences. But these days Gillie was so busy with plans for opening the infirmary that she barely had time to say hello before rushing off again.
Sophie lifted the curtain and peered onto the empty street. Here and there, gaslights flickered. Crickets chirped. A cat yowled and slunk down the street, casting a thin shadow on the walls. She poured a glass of water from the earthenware pitcher on the dresser and drank it down. Tomorrow she would join Ethan for the trip up to the ridge. She had looked forward to it until the unsettling dream reminded her of her guilt. Her deceit. Her hesitation in setting things straight.
Wyatt and Ada taught her that God was a Father of forgiveness and love. But they also taught her that actions were not without consequence. Were her troubles somehow the result of what she had done . . . or failed to do?