Cleo’s words echoed in Gwen’s thoughts : “Why don’t you run for office, Gwennie?” She ignored the shiver of excitement that raced up her spine and posed her sister’s question to the newspaperman. “Why don’t you run for office, Mr. Patterson?”
“Politics wouldn’t suit me. I’m better reporting the news than making it.”
“Not a reason in the world you couldn’t do it,” Cleo’s voice whispered in her head.
Gwen glanced at the pages in the editor’s hands. She’d written the article to encourage women to step forward, to better themselves, to make a difference in the society in which they lived. Was it possible God had been speaking to her even as she wrote those words to other women?
Softly, she said, “My sister thinks I should run.”
Nathan stared at her.
“It’s a silly notion, of course.” Her heart hammered and her pulse raced. “I told Cleo it was.”
Wordlessly, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin with his right hand. “Silly?” A long pause, then, “I’m not so sure it is.”
“You’re not?” Her throat felt parched.
“Isn’t a woman mayor a little like a woman judge?” He shot up from his chair, knuckles resting on the top of the desk. “Do it, Miss Arlington. Run for mayor. The newspaper will put its support behind your candidacy.”
“But Mr. Patterson, I’ve never held public office before. Why would you support me?”
“My gut tells me you would do what needs to be done. You’re articulate and well educated. You obviously aren’t afraid to speak out when you see a problem the community needs to address. You’ve done so often enough in your columns.”
She wished she hadn’t spoken. She wished she’d kept her thoughts to herself.
“Do it, Miss Arlington. The town will be grateful. And I must admit it would give me plenty of interesting things to write about in the coming weeks. Never been a woman mayor that I know of.” He jotted a note on a slip of paper. “I’ll have to look that up. Wouldn’t it be something if we were the first?”
“I haven’t said I’ll do it yet.”
“Think about what it’ll be like here if Tattersall’s elected.”
Gwen took a step back from his desk. “I… I’ll want to pray about it and… and talk to my father.”
“Of course. Of course. You do that. But I’m telling you, Miss Arlington, you should do this.”
Fortunately, Christopher Vance’s worst fears weren’t realized. The damage appeared less serious than first perceived. By late afternoon, the crew of men had stabilized the dam on Crow’s Creek. More permanent repairs would be undertaken in the morning.
Later that evening, after the camp cook had served dinner and the men were settling in for the night, Morgan walked up the draw at the north end of the compound and sat on a log where he was afforded a view of the resort site. Behind him and across from him, ponderosa and lodgepole pines blanketed the steep mountainsides. Wondrous. Awesome. God’s handiwork revealed for all to see. Morgan had traveled many places around the world, seen many beautiful things, but few had come close to stirring his heart the way this place did.
His gaze was drawn to the lodge. Four stories tall, the exterior was made of logs, giving it a rugged, western look. But the interior would be anything but austere. The plans called for fine wall coverings, elegant carpets, original artwork to satisfy the senses, and large, comfortable guest rooms. The kitchen would have all the latest innovations, a place where the resort’s chef would create meals for lodgers that were both healthy and delicious.
On the opposite side of the clearing from the lodge, work had begun on the bathhouse and the two pools that would be fed by the natural hot springs on the property. The bathhouse was fashioned after some of the European spas Morgan had visited with his mother — private bathing rooms with large, porcelain tubs and two steam rooms, one for men and one for women. But there would be one major difference between New Hope and those European resorts. Morgan’s spa would be a place for prayer as well as for relaxation, a place for both spiritual and physical healing. In fact, he was sitting near where the resort’s Danielle McKinley Prayer Chapel would stand.
“What good is physical health,” his mother had often said to him, “if one’s soul is sick?”
God, I believe You gave the vision for this place to my mother. Help me make it become all that You desire.
On the heels of his prayer, he thought of Harrison Carter. Why was the man set against him, against this resort? Was it all because Morgan had refused to sell the land? Surely Carter saw how the resort would benefit Bethlehem Springs. The railroad. Telephone lines and electrical power. All of which would benefit the people who lived here. Morgan knew he’d find a way to get what he needed, but it would be difficult if the town and county tied up the lands where the railroad needed to come through.
“If I had a hand in making the laws, things would be easier for honest businessmen.”
If I had a hand in making the laws…
He stiffened.
If I had a hand in making the laws.
No, that couldn’t be the answer.
And yet…
If I had a hand in making the laws.
Bethlehem Springs was gearing up for a mayoral election. From what little he’d heard, there was only one candidate — and not one people were happy about. Morgan was a citizen of the town. He must be eligible to declare for office.
“The new mayor and the county commissioners must be in agreement on these matters.”
What better way to make certain the new mayor supported Morgan’s plans than for Morgan to be the mayor. Still, that was a bit drastic. There had to be a better way. Besides, he had no desire to run for office. God had brought him to Idaho for a different purpose. He didn’t have time to devote to the day-to-day administration of a town like Bethlehem Springs. Governmental bodies were a necessary evil, but not one he need be part of.
And yet…
He cast a glance toward the sky. “Father, is this what You’re telling me to do?”
TWO
The horse and buggy moved at a nice clip along the road toward the Arlington ranch. Gwen had removed her hat as soon as she was away from town, and now she enjoyed the warmth of late-morning sunshine on the top of her head and the breeze tugging at her hair.
She hadn’t slept well last night. Because of her sister and Nathan Patterson, she’d had too much to think and pray about. Could she do it? Should she do it? Or did even considering it mean she was delusional?
Mayor Guinevere Arlington. It did have a nice ring to it.
Laughter bubbled up in her throat and spilled into the fresh mountain air. Oh, she must be crazy.
At a comfortable pace, it took Gwen nearly an hour to reach her father’s ranch. From November through February, her visits were rare because of snow. She didn’t own a sleigh, so she had to depend on the generosity of her neighbors during winter weather. But the rest of the year, she tried to visit the ranch every Thursday. She loved the drive that took her north through a narrow canyon, across the river on a wooden bridge, and into the dense forest until the road broke through into a long, wide valley where cattle and horses grazed in belly-high grass. Even more, she loved the time spent with Cleo and their father.
Griff Arlington was a tall man, lean and whipcord strong, with an easygoing smile and a quick mind. At fifty-one, his features had been leathered by years spent in the sun and wind, and his once golden blond hair — so like Gwen’s own — had turned white. He was a man with a gift for storytelling, and since the day Gwen arrived in Bethlehem Springs seven years before, he had entertained her with countless tales of Indians and cattle drives, forest fires and drifters, even about how he met and fell in love with her mother. She never tired of listening to his stories.
But above all that, Griff Arlington was a man of wisdom. He didn’t make rash decisions. He had the ability to look at something from all sides and only then choose the side he would take.
The bridge that would carry her across the river had just come into view when the putter of a motorcar’s engine reached her ears. The gelding pulling the buggy snorted and tossed his head. Knowing the animal’s fear of automobiles — thankfully there weren’t many of them in the area — Gwen drew back on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk.
“Easy, Shakespeare.”
The automobile rounded a bend a moment later — a black Ford touring car with a gentleman behind the wheel.
Shakespeare tossed his head and nickered a complaint, and Gwen tightened her grip on the reins. “Easy, boy.” She wondered if she was about to see the elusive Mr. McKinley. That is, she might see him if she could get her horse to stop dancing in the traces. “Calm down, Shakespeare. It’s okay.”
The motorcar slowed when the driver saw her, but before the car rolled to a stop, the engine backfired. Shakespeare reared and started to bolt. Thankfully, Gwen had twisted the reins around her hands, prepared for this very thing. She pressed her shoes into the footboard of the buggy and pulled back for all she was worth.
“Whoa, boy. Easy there. Whoa.”
Shakespeare stopped before they reached the bridge, but the horse wasn’t appeased. He continued to fight her firm hands on the reins.
“Are you all right, miss?”
She glanced to her left and saw the driver of the automobile as he shot past her to take ahold of the reins up close to the bit. “What are you doing, sir?”
“I saw your horse was frightened by the backfire and about to run off with you.” The man looked Shakespeare in the eye, saying softly, “Easy there. Easy.”
“There was no need for your aid, sir. I had him under control.” Why was it men thought women needed to be rescued? Gwen found it an irritating trait, to say the least. “Please let go of the reins, so I may be on my way.”
He didn’t oblige immediately. “I’m sorry about the noise startling your horse. It was entirely my fault.”
“I doubt that you intentionally caused your automobile to backfire, sir. As I understand it, all motorcars do so on occasion.”
“True enough.” He released his hold on the reins as he removed his hat with his other hand. “Morgan McKinley, at your service. I’m glad you weren’t injured. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if you had been.”
Injured? She’d had her horse under control in a matter of seconds. He seemed to think his presence of much greater importance than it was.
Perhaps sensing her irritation, Morgan McKinley took a step away from her horse.
She gave him a nod, then clucked her tongue. “Walk on, Shakespeare.”
“Good day, miss,” the man said as the buggy pulled past him.
Gwen resisted the impulse to look over her shoulder. Instead she slapped the reins against the gelding’s rump, urging him into a trot, and the air was soon filled with the clip-clop-clip-clop sound of hooves upon wood as horse and buggy crossed the bridge. It wasn’t until after they were on solid ground again and had entered the forest that she heard the faint sound of the automobile’s engine start up.
Morgan wasn’t sure if he should be amused or insulted by the young woman’s dismissal. Not that it mattered, but he would like to understand why she’d been so cool to him. He’d apologized, hadn’t he? And even she’d admitted that the backfire wasn’t his fault. So why was she so rude when he’d come to her aid?
Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d known more than his fair share of beautiful women — women in New York City, Boston, Atlanta, London, Berlin, Paris, Rome — who thought the world revolved around them. And if there was one word to describe the woman he’d just encountered on this road, it would be beautiful. Who was she? She might at least have given him her name after he’d introduced himself.
He gave his head a shake. He had no time in his life to think about this woman or any other. An hour ago, he’d reached his decision. He was on his way to the municipal building to declare himself a candidate for mayor. His mind had swirled throughout the night and morning hours, going over the pros and cons of serving in public office. He’d done his best to resist what he felt his heart nudging him to do, but finally he’d had to give in to it.
Now that his decision was made, he planned to approach the election with the same determination he gave his business dealings. If he won, he could bring about the changes necessary for Bethlehem Springs to enjoy new prosperity. With the passage of the right laws and with the right leadership in government, more businessmen could be drawn to the area. Morgan’s one regret was that being mayor would take him away from the resort a great deal of the time, and the resort was why he’d come to Bethlehem Springs.
His gaze wandered to the opposite side of the river, his brain shifting gears to calculate the expense, the time, and the labor involved in laying track for the train that would — if all went according to plan — one day bring guests through Bethlehem Springs and up to the New Hope Health Spa.
He frowned, wondering again why the commissioners seemed determined to block progress. Everything Morgan planned to do could only help Bethlehem Springs. Guests of the resort would have to travel through town first, meaning more business in the restaurants, the hotel, the general store. Having rail service would benefit the townsfolk as well as people traveling to New Hope. The electrical power and telephone services needed by the resort meant Bethlehem Springs would profit from them as well. Why couldn’t the commissioners see that? Hadn’t Harrison Carter told the rest of the council that without his spa — and his money — the railroad would never commit to building a spur up to Bethlehem Springs?
Frustration began to churn in his chest. He drew a deep breath and released it while reminding himself that if this resort were truly God’s will then nothing could thwart it. He needed to keep the faith.
“I met Mr. McKinley on the road,” Gwen told Cleo as they sat on the front porch of the ranch house. “His motorcar frightened Shakespeare, so he stopped to render me a id.” A id she hadn’t needed in the slightest.
“What’s he like? No one around these parts seems to know much about him.”
Gwen pictured him in her mind. Tall, ink-black hair, cleanshaven, well-dressed. “I hardly gave him notice. Once Shakespeare quieted, I was on my way again.”
“Is he handsome?”
“I suppose some would think him so.” She frowned. “But I suspect he thinks rather highly of himself.” Arrogant male. “He doesn’t need my admiration too.”
“Gracious, Gwennie. What did he say to you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. He merely introduced himself.”
“Hmm.” Her sister took a sip of tea from the cup she held in her hand. “Well, I hope I get to meet him for myself. You’ve got me curious now.”
“Do you have romance on your mind, Cleo? Maybe you hope to catch yourself a rich husband.”
“Me and some Eastern dude? I don’t reckon we’d be a good match at all.”
“Why not?”
Cleo ran her fingers through her hair, tousling her curls, then made a sweeping motion toward her trousers and boots. “Can you imagine me living anywhere but on a ranch?”
“I could help you with your hair and clothes.”
Her smile faded. “Gwennie, that’s real sweet of you. But when I meet the man that’s meant for me, I’ll know him. I reckon if God had wanted me to change, I would have done it by now. I sure won’t change to hide the real me any more than you would. Anyways, I want a man who’ll one day make my heart leap like a jackrabbit.” She sighed. “I want a man whose heart will leap for me first, just the way I am.”
“Oh, Cleo. Any man whose heart doesn’t leap for you is a fool.”
Her sister laughed again. “Right you are.”
Gwen didn’t laugh. She meant it.
Cleo Arlington had one of the most loving hearts in the world, but because she wasn’t pretty in the conventional sense of the word, and because she d
ressed in pants instead of dresses and could ride and rope with the best of them, men didn’t notice her as a woman.
Gwen, on the other hand, had been told countless times that she was beautiful, but no one seemed to believe she had a brain in her head. Years before, she’d narrowly escaped marriage to a man who saw her as decorative — someone pleasant to look at across the table at dinner but not someone to be heard. As an unmarried woman, she had the right to make her own decisions, the right to control her own money and her own property, the right to live as it suited her. She meant to keep it that way.
So there they sat, two spinsters — one by choice and one by circumstance — twenty-eight years of age and past their prime. Fraternal twins, as different from the other as night to day, but whose bond of love was unbreakable.
“Here comes Dad,” Cleo said, drawing Gwen from her thoughts.
Their father rode his horse to the hitching post in front of the house. “This is a surprise, Gwen. We didn’t think we’d see you until tomorrow. I thought you gave lessons on Wednesdays.” He looked at Cleo. “This is Wednesday, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Dad. But Gwennie needs some advice from the two of us so she’ll give her piano lessons tomorrow. We were waiting for you to come in for lunch so she could tell us both at the same time.”
“Well, then. I’d best wash up so she can speak her piece.”
Griff dismounted, looped the horse’s reins around the post, and strode to a water pump near the corner of the house. With a few push-pulls of the handle, water gushed from the spigot. Griff tossed his hat onto the ground before leaning over and splashing his face.
Gwen sometimes wondered what sort of woman she would be today if she’d been raised on this ranch instead of in the home of her grandparents. Would she ride, rope, and wear trousers like her sister? Would she herd cattle with her father? Or would she still prefer books, music, and needlepoint?
A Vote of Confidence Page 2