The new employees scattered, leaving Morgan alone in the entry hall. Rather than returning to his study, he opened the front door and stepped outside onto the veranda that wrapped around the house. From this hillside location, he was afforded an unobstructed view of Bethlehem Springs. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he could see the rooftop of Gwen Arlington’s home on Wallula Street.
Hers was a modest home made of red brick, single story, perhaps five or six rooms in all. A white picket fence surrounded a well-tended front yard, flowers and shrubs in abundance. A stone walkway led to the covered porch where wooden chairs and a swing invited people to sit and relax in the cool of the evening. He knew all this because he’d made a point of driving past it yesterday.
It hadn’t taken much effort for Morgan to learn some details of Gwen’s life: raised by her mother in New Jersey; moved to Idaho at the age of twenty-one after graduating from a women’s college; taught piano lessons and wrote occasional articles for the newspaper; devoted to her sister and father; attended the Presbyterian church on Sundays; pursued by one Charles Benson whose father owned a sawmill to the south of town. But Morgan would like to know a lot more.
For practical purposes, of course. The more he knew about Gwen Arlington the more likely he was to win this election.
And he meant to win. The success of New Hope could depend upon him becoming the next mayor of this small mountain town. He wasn’t about to let a pretty face best him. The sooner Gwen Arlington realized it, the better for all concerned.
SEVEN
Gwen’s favorite day of the week was Sunday.
She loved cooking for her father and sister, but even more, she enjoyed the discussions that transpired after they’d eaten their Sunday dinner and moved to either the parlor or, in nice weather, the front porch. Once settled comfortably, they shared the main points of the sermons they’d heard from the pulpits, Gwen quoting Reverend Rawlings, the minister at All Saints, and her father and sister sharing the words of Reverend Barker from the Methodist church.
Then, invariably, Gwen and her father would debate opposing points of Christian doctrine held to by their respective denominations. Cleo tried to stay neutral and sometimes acted as referee.
This Sunday had followed the familiar pattern.
Leaning against the porch rail — looking more comfortable now that she’d changed out of the dress she wore to church and into her trousers, shirt, and vest — Cleo set her glass of iced tea on the floor. “Gwen, your roses are prettier than ever, and it’s only May.” She straightened and moved to the steps. “I’m particularly fond of those.” She pointed to a bush near the front gate. “What color would you call that?”
“Peach.” Gwen exchanged an amused glance with her father. Mentioning the roses was Cleo’s way of indicating it was time for the debate to cease. “I’ll cut you some and put them in water for you to take home.”
She rose from the swing and went into the house, retrieving a pair of scissors from a drawer in the kitchen. When she came outside again, she saw Cleo had descended the steps and was bent over the rose bush in question, sniffing the petals.
Gwen drew near. “You should plant some roses at the ranch. They would be beautiful along the south side of the house. I could give you some starts.”
“Gwennie, I just look at a plant like I’m going to tend it and it keels over dead. I’m far better with horses than green things.”
“I’d be happy to show you how — ” The words died in her throat at the sight of Morgan McKinley on the other side of her fence.
“Good day, Miss Arlington.” He touched his hat brim. Then his gaze shifted to Cleo. “And I believe you are Cleo Arlington. I saw you and your father in church this morning but didn’t have an opportunity to be introduced.”
Gwen felt her eyes widen. This was the first she’d heard of that. Why hadn’t Cleo told her he’d been there?
“I’m Morgan McKinley.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Cleo answered. “We were admiring my sister’s roses. Aren’t they pretty?”
He was looking at Gwen when he answered, “Very pretty, indeed.”
She felt an odd quiver in her stomach.
“Out for an afternoon stroll?” Cleo asked.
“Yes. I felt the need to walk after dinner. I have a new cook, and I’m afraid I ate more than I should have.”
“I know what you mean. Gwennie’s a mighty fine cook herself.” Cleo stepped to the gate and pulled it open. “Why don’t you come on up and meet our father? He’d probably like some male
company.”
Forget what their father would like. Gwen would like to kick her sister in the shin.
“That’s kind of you, Miss Arlington. Thank you.”
“It’s too confusing, all this ‘Miss Arlington’ nonsense, what with the two of us. Call me Cleo. That’s proper enough for me. I’m not a candidate for anything.” She led the way toward the porch. “Care for some iced tea, Mr. McKinley?”
“Yes, thank you. I would. And feel free to call me Morgan.”
When that man left, Gwen was going to throttle her sister. Throttle her within an inch of her life.
She pasted on what she hoped was a pleasant expression and returned to the porch swing.
That Gwen wasn’t happy to have Morgan sitting on her front porch in the chair next to her father was as obvious to him as the nose on her face. Oh, she tried to hide her feelings, but he wasn’t fooled nor surprised. The surprise was that he wanted to change her feelings. He wished her to be comfortable around him. Despite being her opponent, he wanted her to like him, which wasn’t logical in the least.
“Thanks for the iced tea,” he said to Cleo. Then, lifting the glass toward Gwen as if toasting her, he added, “It’s very good.”
She nodded but said nothing, the swing moving gently forward and back.
It was her father, Griffin Arlington, who broke the silence. “You’ve shocked a lot of people, Mr. McKinley, by declaring for office. Some are wondering why it took you more than a year to live in that house you bought. Not to mention your appearance in church this morning for the first time.”
Morgan nodded, certain there was more to come.
“Living out where we do, I don’t have a vote in town affairs, and you don’t owe me an explanation if you don’t want to give one. But I’d sure like to know why you came to Bethlehem Springs. Seems to me there must be plenty of other places to build that resort of yours. This isn’t the only one with hot springs.”
“That’s a fair question, Mr. Arlington, and I don’t mind answering it. I had a number of sites to consider, several of which would have been suitable places to build the resort. All of them had benefits and drawbacks, including the one north of here.”
He decided against saying he believed God directed him to build in Idaho. People usually wanted more concrete explanations than that, and so that’s what he gave them. “But after weighing every factor, I came to believe this would prove to be the most successful site.”
Gwen shifted on the swing. “You think it will be the most profitable location.” Her words seemed to be half-question, half-statement.
“Success isn’t always measured by profits, Miss Arlington. But yes, I do believe the resort will turn a profit.” Morgan leaned back in his chair. “And, I might add, it will do a world of good for the town too.”
“I don’t imagine very many of our citizens could afford to stay at your resort.”
Should he tell her what his mother, before her death, had envisioned for this spa? No, he didn’t think he would share that information. For the moment they were adversaries, and he’d best remember it.
Breaking the silence, Cleo said, “So tell us what your resort’s going to do for Bethlehem Springs.”
“That’s easy enough, Miss Arlington.”
She shook her head. “Call me Cleo. Remember?”
“Cleo.” He smiled at her. “The resort is already employing a number of men during the construction phase. Car
penters. Bricklayers. Stonemasons. General laborers. And when it’s time for our opening, we’ll need maids, bellmen, waiters and waitresses for the restaurant, a chef and chef’s assistants, attendants who will work in the bathhouses, masseurs, stable boys, a physician, a couple of therapists, and several nurses.” He lifted his hands, palms up. “As you can see, we’ll need many, many people to work at New Hope, and I naturally hope to be able to hire as many as possible from the area.”
He could have mentioned the possibility that a railroad spur would be brought up to Bethlehem Springs. But that was too tentative at present. Without the cooperation of the town and county, without his ability to buy more land from them, the railroad would never agree to come here. And lack of train service would definitely be a hindrance for New Hope.
“And it goes without saying,” he continued, “that the resort will bring with it a strong tourist trade, which will benefit other businesses in Bethlehem Springs. They’ll come into town to attend a performance at the opera house or to eat in one of the restaurants, or they’ll want to buy a new dress or a new hat or any number of things that the resort doesn’t provide.” He glanced from Cleo to her father to Gwen and back to Cleo again.
“That all sounds good,” she said, “but it begs another question in my way of thinking.”
Something told him that Cleo Arlington always spoke her mind, and he decided he liked that about her. No pretense. No gilding of the lily. No pretending to be anything she wasn’t just to impress someone. She was who she was.
And if Inez Cheevers hadn’t told him Cleo and Gwen Arlington were twins, he wouldn’t have believed it.
“If you’re all so determined about making that resort of yours a success, why are you running for mayor? Won’t that take you away from the work that brought you here?”
Morgan nodded. “Yes, it will, but I have good people working for me who can manage things on my behalf.”
Softly, Gwen said, “You didn’t answer Cleo’s other question. Why do you want to run for mayor?”
He turned his attention upon her. “Because I can do the job and do it well. And as a businessman, I’ve discovered that the governing bodies hereabouts are not always as helpful as they should be. They make it harder for new businesses to come to the community. I want to change that. I want to bring progress to Bethlehem Springs, and I want to see the town and its people flourish.” He challenged her with his eyes. “Don’t you, Miss Arlington?”
Gwen almost sputtered with indignation. What a question! Of course she wanted her town to flourish. But she didn’t believe an outsider was the right person to make that happen. The mayor of Bethlehem Springs should be intimately acquainted with the people who lived here.
“I believe in progress, Mr. McKinley, and I want prosperity for those who live here. But I don’t believe you know our town well enough to make those things happen in the right way.”
“Sometimes an outsider can see things more clearly than those on the inside.”
Gwen felt heat rising in her cheeks. What gall! Had he no humility whatsoever? As if they needed him to rescue their town, the same way he’d wanted to rescue her when his motorcar startled Shakespeare.
He smiled.
Was he laughing at her?
“Miss Arlington, I believe I have intruded on you and your family long enough.” He held out his empty glass to her. “I thank you all for your hospitality.”
He was laughing at her. He must be, for only a blind man wouldn’t have seen how he’d angered her. She took the glass from his hand, making certain their fingers did not touch.
Morgan rose from the chair and placed his hat on his head. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Arlington. Cleo.” He nodded one last time at Gwen. “I look forward to further discussions about how we might improve Bethlehem Springs.” Then he turned and walked away, disappearing through the gate a few moments later.
“A pleasant fellow,” her father said.
“Pleasant?” Gwen felt as if the veins in her temples might explode. “He was condescending and… and supercilious. Why, even his churchgoing must be to help him win the election. Wasn’t this the first time he’s been to your services? Isn’t that what you said? What a hypocrite. Doesn’t he know God won’t be mocked?”
“Gwennie,” Cleo said, “I think you’re being a bit hard on the man. You don’t know that’s why he came to church. You don’t want to be judging him unfairly.”
Gwen looked from her sister to their father and back again. Had Morgan McKinley won them over so easily? Her own family! Well, she wasn’t so easily swayed. And if he’d thought this would make her rethink her own candidacy, he was in for a rude awakening.
EIGHT
Harrison Carter folded the morning’s newspaper and placed it on the table next to his breakfast plate. What he wouldn’t like to say to Nathan Patterson about this edition!
“Susannah?” He looked toward the opposite end of the table. “Is everything in readiness for tonight’s supper party?”
“Yes, Harrison. Of course it is.”
He had not expected otherwise. His wife was the epitome of efficiency. Thirteen years his junior, Susannah had been groomed for marriage to a man of his station. Trained by her mother to properly manage her husband’s household, to serve as the perfect hostess, and to bear and raise his children while doing everything in her power to please him, she was genteel, compliant, and attractive. Everything a wife should be.
Harrison pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “I’ll be home in time to change before our guests arrive.” He picked up the newspaper, then strode to her end of the table and leaned down to kiss the cheek she turned to him.
The Harrison Carters owned the largest home in Bethlehem Springs. It was built by a man made rich in the Idaho gold rush fifty years earlier; Harrison had purchased the three-story mansion for a song after the owner lost his fortune in the financial panic of 1893. Some men were fools — and he was glad of it. He often profited from the mistakes of others.
When he stepped out his front doorway a short while later, Harrison found his automobile and driver waiting for him. The drive to his office took only a matter of minutes, but it afforded him another chance to peruse the newspaper.
“Why They Are Running for Mayor,” the headline blared. Beneath it were three articles, written by the candidates, about what they hoped to accomplish if elected.
Hiram Tattersall, as could be expected, came off sounding like the buffoon he was. Gwen Arlington’s piece was articulate and insightful. Unfortunately, so was Morgan McKinley’s.
His eyes narrowed as he folded the paper once again. Two things were needed. First, he must convince Tattersall to withdraw. He didn’t want him taking even one vote away from Harrison’s chosen candidate. Second, he needed to discover — or manufacture, if necessary — something that would discredit McKinley. The second would be more difficult than the first, especially since the election wasn’t that far off.
The motorcar rolled to a stop on Main in front of the law office. The driver was quick to get out and open the door for his employer.
“Be ready to take me home at five-thirty,” Harrison said as he disembarked.
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced up at the sign on the building. Harrison Carter, Attorney-at-Law. What the sign did not say was that Harrison was an ambitious man who knew what he wanted. And that once he knew, he went after it.
What he wanted now was that land McKinley had purchased just weeks before Harrison received confirmation — confidential confirmation — that there was a wealth of gold hidden in the mountains to the north of town. If he’d known anyone else had been interested in purchasing the land, he would have made an offer sooner. But he hadn’t known.
It wasn’t right that someone like McKinley could sweep in here and take what Harrison had meant to be his. And somehow he must persuade McKinley this wasn’t the right place for him after all.
Standing outside the main lodge at the resort, F
agan Doyle slapped the newspaper against his thigh and laughed. “Boy-oh, I’m thinkin’ you’ll have no easy win over Miss Arlington.”
Morgan nodded his agreement. He too had been impressed with Gwen’s article in that morning’s Daily Herald. It revealed intelligence and integrity, as well as her heart. It should give her an edge at the ballot box.
Not liking the direction of his thoughts, he cleared his throat. “Bring me up to date on the construction. Anything particular I should know?”
Fagan’s grin disappeared. “Sure, and there is one thing you should know.” He jerked his head to the right, then turned in that direction.
Morgan fell into step beside him.
“I don’t know when it happened. When everyone’s workin’, it makes for a racket. All the hammerin’ and such. Still, ’tis hard to believe we never heard a thing.”
“Heard what?”
Just as Morgan asked that question, they reached one of the larger storage sheds — the one holding the window glass that had arrived by freight wagon two weeks earlier. Fagan yanked open the door. Morgan stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they did, he felt his stomach sink. Shattered glass lay everywhere.
“Not a whole pane left amongst ’em,” Fagan said.
Morgan stepped deeper into the shed. Glass crunched under his shoes.
Who did this? Is it related to what happened up at the dam?
As if reading his mind, Fagan said, “Young boys up to a bit of mischief, I’m thinkin’. The shed door wasn’t locked, though I promise it will be from here on in.”
Morgan drew a deep breath as he turned to face his friend. “I’ll order more windows as soon as I’m back to town.” He stepped outside into the sunlight. “In the meantime, we’d better hire some guards with dogs to help patrol the site.”
A Vote of Confidence Page 6