by Dorothy Love
She sat on her bed a long time, pondering. But finally she crawled beneath the sheet and snuffed the light.
“Almost there.”
Ethan paused and offered Sophie his hand as they ascended the steep, narrow trail. They had left his horse and rig in the clearing at the end of the river road and proceeded on foot, Ethan leading the way. In his knapsack was a picnic Li Chung had prepared for them. A faint scent of butter mixed with cinnamon teased Sophie’s nose, and her stomach groaned. Last night, after hours of tossing and turning, she’d finally drifted to sleep. Then she had nearly overslept, and there hadn’t been time for breakfast.
“I didn’t realize this trail was so steep.” Sophie clasped Ethan’s hand and he pulled her up beside him. They paused for breath, listening to the sultry summer breeze moving through the stands of oak and pine.
“This looks like an old logging trail.” Ethan indicated the deep ruts in the ground. “They must have abandoned it when they discovered a shorter one closer to the rail line.”
Sophie took her handkerchief from her pocket and blotted her face, too worried about her loss of advertising revenue to concentrate on what he was telling her. How on earth would she face Wyatt after he’d shown so much faith in her? And how could she give up work that grew more important to her every day? The little speech she’d delivered to Mr. Blakely during the town council meeting had been more than mere words to her. Maybe it was foolish and naïve to hold on to such lofty goals, but she truly wanted to change things for the better. Now it seemed doubtful she’d have that chance.
“Let’s press on.” Ethan smiled down at her. “I want to reach the summit in time for lunch.”
Bright sunlight filtered through the dense forest, falling across his broad shoulders and lighting his brown hair. Dressed in dungarees and a pale blue shirt, the sleeves rolled to expose his muscular forearms, he looked more handsome than ever. But she couldn’t let herself admire him too much. After today he probably wouldn’t want to see her again.
They clambered along the trail, stepping around tangled undergrowth and exposed tree roots, and soon grew too winded for conversation. At last they reached the top of the ridge that gave the town its name. The valley unfurled beneath their feet, a carpet of dark green dotted with patches of brown. Here and there, behind rows of fences, farmhouses lay scattered like forgotten toys. To her right, a patch of river and the church steeple glittered in the late-summer sunlight.
The air was cool against Sophie’s warm skin. No wonder Wyatt had brought Ada up here to propose marriage. What woman could resist such a romantic vista, especially when viewed—as Ada had—from a snow-dusted sleigh? Sophie inhaled another draft of air and sighed. Surely this must be how God felt when he surveyed his creation.
“Pretty spectacular, isn’t it?” Ethan set his knapsack down and looked around. “I was hoping to find a more level plot of ground up here for the photographer’s hut, but I suppose I can send a couple of men to take out a few more trees. Getting rid of those big tree roots would expand the space a bit.”
“Seems a shame to cut them down. Wyatt says some of these trees have been here since Indian times.”
Ethan nodded. “You can’t stop progress, though. Once Horace makes up his mind about something, there is no going back. He’s keen to get this enterprise up and running before the end of this season.”
“But won’t he first have to hire someone to take the photographs?”
“He has someone in mind.” Ethan opened his knapsack, spread a small white cloth on the ground, and set out their feast: tantalizing, buttery cinnamon bread stuffed with raisins, a jar of raspberry jam, a hunk of cheese, and a small basket of fruit. He motioned for her to sit, then settled himself beside her. He offered her a plate and polished an apple on his sleeve. “I think he intends to offer the position to Miss Garaphelia Swint.”
Sophie frowned. Where had she heard that name? She bit into the cinnamon bread and sighed. Li Chung certainly had a way with flour and yeast.
“Miss Swint gave some talks at Blue Smoke last month,” Ethan said. “She published a book of photographs last year and seems quite taken with the idea of working up here on the mountain.” He flipped the pages of his leather notebook and showed her a sketch of a long, low building open on three sides, a stone fireplace anchoring the middle. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll get the job done. Eventually I’ll add some benches and maybe a couple of tables so guests can picnic while they wait their turn for photographs. But Miss Swint is as eager as Mr. Blakely to open for business.”
“I remember that name now.” A little squirrel ventured close and she tossed it a morsel. “I saw it on the flier I printed for you. Her book had something to do with Southern homes and gardens.”
“That’s her.” He tucked away his notebook and eyed the last bit of cheese. “Are you going to eat that?”
“Be my guest. I suppose Miss Swint must be quite the genteel lady.”
Ethan laughed. “Genteel? More like outspoken and intrepid. Opinionated. But I suppose those are good qualities for working up here.” He finished off the cheese, plucked a grape, and popped it into his mouth. “She seems quite determined about everything she does. Sort of like you, Sophie. I admire that in a woman.”
Her face warmed at the compliment. “Thank you, but I’m not sure determination is enough.”
He opened a jar, poured water into two cups, and handed her one. “It seems to have worked for Miss Gilman. I understand the council gave her permission to use the orphanage for her infirmary.”
“Yes. But there’s no money to buy materials for the repairs. Gillie has been asking everyone we can think of for donations, but I doubt we’ll raise enough to buy new windowpanes and replace the rotten clapboards.”
A cardinal called from the low-hanging branches of an ancient oak, his crimson feathers gleaming in the sunlight. Ethan scooted closer to Sophie until their shoulders touched. She swallowed. It was dangerous to be alone with him this way, risking her heart for something that could never be.
“I may be able to help with that,” he said. “We’ve some excess materials left over from the last phase of construction. There’s not enough to warrant shipping back to the suppliers, just a few odds and ends. But it might be enough to repair the orphanage.”
“That would be wonderful. How much would you charge for them?”
“Not a thing. Consider it my contribution to the welfare of the town.”
“Oh, Ethan. Gillie will be thrilled.”
“Just don’t let Horace find out. He pinches every penny until it hollers.”
“He does seem like a . . . difficult man.”
Ethan nodded. “Horace Blakely insists on having his own way about everything. And he never forgets any perceived wrong, no matter how slight.”
Sophie’s stomach dropped. Of course. That was why most of her customers had suddenly deserted her. Horace Blakely had found a way to pay her back for her infamous editorial and to teach her a lesson for being on the wrong side of the argument with the town council. Anger burned inside her. An ordinary person could never win against the rich and powerful. Why had she been so reckless?
“. . . let me know.”
“I’m sorry.” She managed a shaky smile. “I was lost in thought. Gillie will be ecstatic to learn this news. It’s most generous, Ethan. How can I ever thank you?”
He grinned, leaned closer, and tapped his cheek. “Little kiss right here will do nicely.”
Despite all warnings to herself, she wanted to kiss him. And this would be her only chance. Once he knew the truth, he would want nothing more to do with her. She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
He turned his deep blue gaze on her, and she was lost. He clasped her arms, sending a river of warmth flowing through her. “I said once I’d never kiss you again until we both wanted it.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Well, I want it very much right now,” he said, his voice rough with em
otion. “How about you?”
“Ethan—”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He gave a soft little laugh and her heart sped up. Ethan seemed to have that effect on her these days. His lips claimed hers, and all caution dissipated like mountain fog. She went willingly into his arms and gave herself over to the clean, woodsy scent of his skin, the warmth of his lips on hers. How wonderful it was to be held this way, to be wanted. But this one kiss, the memory of it, would have to last forever.
At last they drew apart and sat silently, their gazes locked, afraid to speak and break the spell. At last Ethan let out a long breath and got to his feet. “Let’s pack up and look around a bit more. Maybe there’s a better spot for Miss Swint’s hut on down the ridge.”
She picked up their dishes and cups and folded the white cloth, blotting at a red smear of jam. Ethan stuffed everything into his knapsack and they set off, his hand clasping hers. A bit farther along the trail they came to a large clearing overlooking a wide expanse of the river below and the gently undulating mountain peaks beyond.
With his free hand, Ethan shaded his eyes and looked out over the valley. “This place is perfect. Plenty of space to erect a pavilion and the best view in town. I have to admit, Horace may be on to something. Not only will our guests leave with a memorable photograph; they’ll show it to their friends, and then those people will want to come here too. Free advertising.”
Advertising. The beauty of the afternoon vanished in the wake of new worry. Now that she knew what Horace Blakely was up to, she’d have to figure out some way around his scheme. She couldn’t really blame Mr. Pruitt and Miss Hattie and the rest of them for withdrawing their business. No doubt Horace Blakely had issued an ultimatum: withdraw their notices or face his censure. But she couldn’t think of that now.
“You’re right. It is perfect, Ethan.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry for this day to end, but we ought to start back.”
“Yes.” She looked up into his face and was overcome with fear and guilt. Robbie’s words came back to her, filling the space between her and Ethan before settling into her heart. She had to follow through with her plan to tell the truth, even as her conflicted thoughts beat like trapped birds inside her chest.
She briefly closed her eyes. Please, Lord, give me courage. And please let Ethan understand.
“Ethan? There’s something I must tell you. Something I should have told you long before now.”
He shifted his knapsack to his other shoulder and smiled down at her. “All right. I’m listening.”
“That day at Blue Smoke, when you asked about my family, I said they were Italian and French.”
“I remember.”
“I’m ashamed to admit that I was not truthful. I’ve regretted it ever since, and I want to rectify the situation.”
His forehead furrowed. “Go on.”
“The truth is, I have no idea who I am or where I came from. My first memories are of living at the orphanage and being called, among many other things . . . a mulatto.” Even after all this time, the recollection still hurt. She lifted one shoulder. “Maybe I am.”
He turned away and stared out over the valley. Tears welled up and she scrubbed at her eyes, willing them away. After the incident with the stranger at Blue Smoke that night when Ethan had been so angry, so dismissive of his mixed-blooded visitor, what else had she expected?
She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I don’t blame you for hating me. I was wrong to deceive you, and I wish—more than you can imagine—that I’d had the courage to admit this to you from the outset.”
Ethan looked at her then, his expression hard and unknowable.
“Please forgive me.” Not knowing who her parents were had always made her ache inside, but the look in his eyes caused a wound just as deep. His silence enveloped her like a shroud. What was the use of saying anything more? “Please take me down to the rig. I can walk from there. I don’t imagine you care for my company any—”
“Yoo-hoo!” A female voice echoed across the ridge. “Mr. Heyward? Anybody here?”
Ethan hesitated, then cupped his hands and called out, “Hello?”
A woman wearing a sturdy brown skirt, white shirtwaist, and battered gray hat appeared on the path in front of them. Buggy-whip thin and all sharp angles, she shouldered a bulky leather bag, but it didn’t seem to hinder her confident stride. She clambered up beside them and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “That is quite some climb, Mr. Heyward.”
“Indeed.” Ethan placed one hand on the small of Sophie’s back and gave her a gentle nudge. “Miss Swint, may I present Miss Sophie Caldwell. She owns the Gazette. Miss Caldwell, this is Miss Garaphelia Swint.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.” Miss Swint bobbed her head at Sophie. “I heard a woman was running the paper these days, and I’m glad to hear it. If you ever need photographs, let me know. I’ll make you a good price.”
If she didn’t think of some way to earn more money, there soon would be no paper. Sophie nodded. “Thank you. I will.”
Ethan eyed Miss Swint’s leather bag. “Don’t tell me you hauled all your equipment up here.”
“Just my field camera and my tripod. I want to make a few studies to see how the light hits the ridge at various times of day. I can’t have the sun messing up my photographs, now can I?”
At last Ethan grinned, and Sophie breathed easier, even though his smile was meant for Miss Swint and not for her. “I suppose not.” He swatted at a bug buzzing around his ear. “This ridge runs for miles. How in the world did you find us?”
The photographer produced a slender brass cylinder from her pocket. “With a compass and my spyglass, of course. Take a look.”
Sophie watched Ethan put the spyglass to his eye and follow a bald eagle circling below them. He handed it back. “Quite impressive. I’d enjoy having one of those.”
“Well, you won’t find another one as famous as this. It belonged to Jean Lafitte, or so I was told.” Miss Swint tucked it away. “If you two will excuse me, I need to get set up. The light changes fast up here.” She inclined her head. “Happy to have met you, Miss Caldwell. Don’t forget to call on me for all your photographic needs.”
The lady photographer hurried along the ridge, her leather bag bumping against her hip.
“Ready, Sophie?” Ethan asked.
Without waiting for her reply, he led her down the trail and into the clearing where his horse stood tethered to a sapling. At their approach the horse raised his head, then went back to cropping grass. Sophie watched Ethan stow his knapsack in the rig and fought the powerful emotions surging through her. Kissing Ethan was like tasting chocolate for the first time and wanting more. But now there was no chance that he might one day love her.
“I don’t mind driving you back to the Verandah,” he said.
“Thank you, but I’d rather walk.”
Some indefinable emotion flashed across his face, then was gone. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He got into the rig, clicked his tongue to the horse, and drove away, leaving her to stare after him. She waited until his rig disappeared before beginning the long walk down the mountain. She’d been foolish to hope he would forgive her lie or overlook her uncertain parentage.
He had come from a family where everyone knew who they were and where they belonged.
He would never understand the pain of being blamed for something that was not his fault.
EIGHTEEN
August 30, 1886
Hickory Ridge, Tennessee
Dear Mr. McClure,
On the recommendation of our mutual acquaintance, Mrs. Lydia McPherson of the Sherman, Texas, Democrat, I’m writing to inquire whether you might be interested in my writing for your newspaper syndicate. I believe Mrs. McPherson has sent you certain of my pieces, but I have taken the liberty of enclosing herewith a few more that I feel might have wider appeal. For instance, Mr. Bell’s new telephone machine is sure to revo
lutionize communication. The dedication of the Statue of Liberty certainly engenders any American’s reflections about the meaning and cost of freedom. Finally, I’m enclosing an article about the brigantine Mary Celeste and the unknown fate of Captain Briggs, his family, and crew. Sad though it is, people love a mystery. The fact that this one remains unsolved so many years after the ship was found abandoned at sea should appeal to your readers’ sense of curiosity without, I hope, being too sensational.
I am most eager to join your syndicate and I hope for a favorable response.
Sophie R. Caldwell,
Editor and Publisher,
Hickory Ridge Gazette
Sophie blew on the pages to dry the ink, then folded the letter and enclosures for mailing, hoping they would find favor with Mr. McClure’s syndicate.
She had to do something to bring in extra money. A return visit to her advertisers had confirmed her suspicions regarding Mr. Blakely. Although Mr. Pruitt refused to speak another word about it, Miss Hattie had reluctantly admitted Mr. Blakely’s role in her decision. According to the restaurateur, Mr. Blakely forbade his day workers to patronize any establishment that did business with Sophie Caldwell. Since most of Miss Hattie’s steady customers were men and women who took both breakfast and supper in town, she had no choice but to honor the resort owner’s wishes.
Horace Blakely’s actions were akin to blackmail, pure and simple, but how could she fight them? Writing for Mr. McClure’s syndicate and soliciting more subscriptions were her only defenses.
“Sophie?” Caleb rounded her desk, a scowl on his ink-smeared face. “I just came from the depot, and our paper shipment still hasn’t come. It should’ve been here a week ago.”
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Why must everything be so difficult? “I’ll send a wire to the supplier and find out what’s going on.”
“I can do it. I need to stop by the mercantile anyway. Tomorrow is Ma’s birthday, and I want to buy her a present.”