Yes, of course. That was the reason.
In the kitchen, she poured iced tea into two tall glasses, sweetened the drinks with sugar, and carried them back to the front porch. She found Morgan sitting on the swing, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat, his right ankle resting on his left thigh just above the knee. He looked at home, as if he’d sat thus a hundred times.
Oh, this would not do.
She handed him his glass of tea. “Do tell me what business brought you to see me.” Although the swing was her favorite place to sit, she chose instead to settle on the wooden chair farthest from it — and from him.
“Reverend Barker has invited the mayoral candidates to participate in a debate next Saturday in the basement of the Methodist church. The room is big enough to hold a large group. I’m sure there would be a great turnout for the event. However, Mr. Tattersall is undecided at this time about whether or not he wants to participate. So I have come to see if you will accept the invitation.”
The Methodist church had become Morgan’s church since he moved to town. Would he have an advantage because of the location? Would her fellow Presbyterians stay away? Surely not. Besides, her sister and father attended the Methodist church as well, and they were supporting her in the election.
Morgan took a sip of his iced tea, then said, “Of course, if you and Tattersall both decline, I suppose I shall simply give a speech.”
Over my dead body! “That won’t be necessary. I accept.”
“Splendid. I believe it shall prove an interesting evening.” He drained the last of his tea. “Although, as I’ve mentioned to you before, you and I are not so far apart in what we hope to accomplish in office.”
Rather than agree with him, she reached for his empty glass. Perhaps they did share many of the same views, but she would still make the better mayor. He couldn’t possibly care about the town or its citizens as much as she did. He hadn’t lived here long enough. He’d spent almost the whole of the past year up at that resort of his. That’s what would be his undoing.
Morgan rose from the swing and set his hat back on his head. “Thank you for the tea, Miss Arlington, and for allowing me to intrude upon your gardening.”
Gwen rose to walk with him toward the steps.
“By the way, I’d like you to know that I’ve been practicing the piano every day.”
“Would that all of my students were as dedicated.”
He smiled down at her, a look that caused her breath to catch. “I have every intention of impressing my teacher when she comes to my home next Tuesday.” He tipped his hat one final time, went down the steps, and strode toward his waiting automobile.
Heaven preserve me. This man would be her undoing if she wasn’t careful.
Dear Daphne,
It has been far too long since I have written to you, dear sister, and I apologize. I would use the excuse of how busy I’ve been with work on the resort, but that’s all it would be. An excuse. Please forgive me. I hope this letter finds you well. How is our cousin Gertrude? Please give her my regards.
You may be surprised to learn this, but I am running for the office of mayor of Bethlehem Springs. I confess that I entered the race because we’ve had problems with the local decision makers at both the town and county levels, and those problems have caused a number of delays for New Hope. I had hoped I would already have an agreement with the railroad to bring a spur up to Bethlehem Springs, but until some land-use matters have been resolved, I don’t believe the railroad will look at my proposal seriously.
One of my opponents for office is a woman. Miss Guinevere Arlington is her name, although she is called Gwen by her family and friends. It is my hope that I will one day be considered her friend too. It is Miss Arlington who has caused me to enjoy this run for office more than I anticipated.
Will you be traveling abroad again this summer? If not, I wish you would consider a visit to Bethlehem Springs. I have hired a proper staff to care for my home and the needs of any guests who might come to stay. Do think about it, dear sister. I have been reminded recently of the importance of family. Since you and I are the only McKinleys left, I would like us to know one another better than we do.
I remain your affectionate brother,
Morgan
SIXTEEN
“Ah, Miss Arlington.” Charles Benson doffed his hat to Gwen as she rounded the southwest corner on Wallula and Main. Almost as if he’d been waiting for her. “A glorious Sunday morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, Mr. Benson.” She quickened her pace as she crossed the street, the front doors of All Saints Presbyterian in view.
Charles stayed beside her. “Eager to get to church?”
“I’m always eager to worship the Lord.”
“Of course. Aren’t we all?”
She thought not but didn’t say so.
“Townsfolk are buzzing about the election because of you.”
“Are they? Why is that?” Her tone was somewhat sharper than she’d intended it to be.
“Well… I mean… no one expected a woman to run for office. Especially a young unmarried woman such as yourself.”
She stopped and faced him, clutching her Bible close to her chest. “My age and gender should have no bearing on my qualifications. Nor should my marital status. I am fully qualified and able to serve as mayor. I care deeply about the issues that concern the people of Bethlehem Springs. I should think that would be all they cared about.”
Poor Charles. He seemed at a loss for words now.
“The service will start soon, Mr. Benson. We don’t want to be late.” She hated using the word we, certain he would read meaning into it that wasn’t there. However, she saw no way around it. After all, Charles and his family were members of All Saints too.
Morgan McKinley, however, was not a member — yet he was the very man she saw first upon stepping into the vestibule. How alarming that her heart tripped at the sight of him.
“Good morning, Miss Arlington.”
“Good morning.”
“Surprised to see me here?”
His smile was one of his best features. In fact, she liked it so much she forgot his question.
“How do you do,” Morgan said to Charles, offering his hand. “I’m Morgan McKinley.”
“Charles Benson.”
His question found its way back into her head. “Yes, I admit I am surprised. You’re a Methodist, aren’t you?”
He lowered his voice as he leaned toward her. “I wanted to see you at worship. One can learn a lot about a person that way.” He glanced at Charles, then back at her. “May I sit with you? This being my first visit to All Saints.”
No! “If you wish, Mr. McKinley.” Why did she say that?
She moved toward the sanctuary. Although she didn’t look, she knew he was right behind her. She heard him greeting other congregants, working his charm, as he followed her to her usual pew.
He didn’t need to sit with her just because it was his first visit. He obviously knew many of the people here. Oh, he was a cad to do this to her in her own church. Was there no limit to the lengths to which he would go to win the election?
When she was seated, she glanced to her right to see if Charles meant to sit with them. Apparently not. He had joined his family across the aisle and up one row.
She should have looked for another single female and sat beside her. She wasn’t required to sit in this pew. As it was, it looked as if she was with Morgan McKinley. Nothing could be further from the truth, but that was surely how it appeared all the same.
Thoughts churning, Gwen didn’t realize the service had begun until Morgan rose to his feet, hymnal in hand. She stood too. A few bars into the hymn, she learned he had a wonderful singing voice, the kind that made others turn their heads to see to whom it belonged. Then they smiled, taking pleasure in listening to him. And there she was, sharing his hymnal, the two of them side by side for all to see.
How had her Sunday morning gone so wrong?
It hadn’t been Morgan’s aim to make Gwen uncomfortable. Nor had his decision to join her there had anything to do with the campaign. Not really. He’d simply wanted to see her again, and church had been the logical place on a Sunday morning. Reverend Rawlings was a good preacher, although Morgan thought the man could use some of Reverend Barker’s fiery enthusiasm.
Which caused him to wonder why Gwen chose to worship at All Saints Presbyterian instead of Bethlehem Springs Methodist with her sister and father. He would have to ask her — once she was no longer mad at him.
When the last hymn was sung and the last amen spoken, Morgan turned toward Gwen. “I enjoyed the service and appreciate your hospitality, Miss Arlington. Thank you.”
She didn’t quite meet his eyes as she replied, “You’re welcome, Mr. McKinley.”
He stepped into the center aisle, then motioned for her to precede him. As he followed her out of the sanctuary, he took pleasure in watching the way she carried herself. She was a tiny thing. Couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. But her back was ramrod straight and her head held high, as if she hoped to make herself a few inches taller by sheer force of will. If anyone could do such a thing, it was probably Gwen Arlington.
At the church doorway, she paused long enough to shake the reverend’s hand and tell him she enjoyed the sermon. Morgan did the same.
“It was our pleasure to have you with us today, Mr. McKinley,” Walter Rawlings said. “Could it be you might become part of our congregation?”
“Sorry, Reverend.” From the corner of his eyes, he saw Gwen go down the steps. “I was only visiting.”
The man chuckled. “And I believe I know why.” His gaze shifted toward Gwen, who was now in conversation with several other women.
Morgan let the comment go unacknowledged, instead saying, “There’s going to be a mayoral debate next Saturday at the Methodist church. I hope to see you there.”
“I’ll certainly do my best.”
“The details should be in tomorrow’s Herald.”
“I’ll look for them, Mr. McKinley.”
Morgan set his hat on his head and stepped into the bright sunlight of midday. He didn’t know if Gwen saw him, but that was the moment she moved away from her women friends and walked across the street, soon disappearing around the corner on her way toward home.
It was tempting to go after her. He could apologize for making her uncomfortable. He could invite her to dine with him. He could —
No, he’d best let it go for now. He’d already bungled things enough for one day.
He turned north and walked through town on his way toward home. There was little activity along Main Street on a Sunday. A few horses were tied at the hitching post outside the High Horse Saloon and one automobile was parked on the street. Tattersall obviously had no scruples about having his business open on a Sunday. That wouldn’t last long. Prohibition could come to Idaho as early as the first of next year.
What would Tattersall do if that happened? He’d have to close down the High Horse. Could that be why he was running for office? To make sure he had a job? No. Tattersall didn’t strike him as a man who considered the future much beyond the next week.
He’ll probably become a bootlegger. Just what Bethlehem Springs needs.
Once past the municipal building, the street made a steep climb up the hillside. Halfway up, with the sun feeling hot upon his back, Morgan stopped to remove his suit coat, then tossed it over one shoulder, the collar hooked on an index finger. He’d almost reached the top of the hill and the turn onto Skyview when a boy on a bicycle came racing around the corner, headed straight for him. Morgan gave a shout of warning and jumped to one side, barely avoiding being hit. The boy veered hard to the left, wheels skidding in the dirt and gravel, and then the kid parted company with the bike, rolling and bouncing down the incline before coming to a dusty halt on his back.
Morgan dropped his suit coat and hurried to the boy. “Hey, there.” He knelt beside the lad. “You okay?”
The boy — perhaps eleven or twelve years old, he’d guess — gave Morgan a dazed stare.
“Are you okay?”
“I… I think so.”
“What’s your name?”
“Owen. Owen Goldsmith.” The boy sat up, giving his head a slow shake as he did so. When he saw the long, ragged tear in the knee of his left pant leg, he groaned. “Ma’s not going to like seein’ that. These are my Sunday best.”
Morgan leaned for ward. “Your knee’s bleeding too.” He parted the torn fabric to look at the scraped knee. The wound had dirt and gravel imbedded in the bleeding flesh. “Think you can walk on it?”
“’Course I can.” Owen gave him a disgusted look, one that said the question was dumb.
Subduing a grin, Morgan stood and waited while the boy got to his feet. Owen took one step — and grimaced, his face gone pale. Even if the bike could be ridden — not likely from the look of the front wheel — he couldn’t have managed it with that knee.
“Where do you live?” Morgan asked.
“On Shenandoah, the other side of Wallula.”
“That’s a long way, limping and pushing a bike with a twisted wheel. Come with me to my place and I’ll drive you home in my automobile.”
Owen’s eyes got as big as saucers. “Really? I can ride in your car?”
“Sure can.” Morgan pointed. “My house is just around the corner there. Let’s go.” He stepped over to the bicycle, lifted it by the cross bar, and started up the hillside, checking his stride so as not to outdistance the boy.
When they reached Morgan’s suit coat where he’d dropped it in the road, Owen picked it up. “I’ll carry this for you.”
“Thanks.”
They walked in silence until they reached the top of the hill and turned onto Skyview. That’s when it struck Morgan where he’d seen the kid before — leaving Gwen’s home. “You take piano lessons from Miss Arlington, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” There was an implied What of it? in his tone.
Morgan wondered if some of Owen’s friends gave him a hard time about playing the piano. “She’s my teacher too.”
The kid shot him a look of disbelief. “Aren’t you kinda old to be takin’ lessons?”
“Never too old to learn something new.”
Owen grunted.
“And Miss Arlington’s a good teacher. Don’t you think? I know I’ve enjoyed her thus far.”
“Yeah, I suppose she’s good.” The kid squinted his eyes. “You sweet on her or somethin’?”
Fortunately for Morgan, they’d reached his home. He ignored Owen’s question and pointed toward the garage. “My motorcar’s in there. Want to try to clean up that knee before I take you home?”
“No. It can wait.” It was clear he wanted to get into the Ford touring car as soon as possible.
Within minutes, the damaged bicycle and its owner were in the automobile and Morgan was driving down the hillside on Shenandoah, headed toward the Goldsmith home. As he passed through the intersection with Wallula, he couldn’t help glancing toward Gwen’s home and wishing he hadn’t upset her the way he had.
Because Owen was right. Morgan was sweet on Miss Arlington.
SEVENTEEN
Gwen was standing in the kitchen, the door to the back porch open to catch the breeze, when she heard the put-putter-put of an automobile. Her heart leapt at the sound. Was it Morgan’s car? Was he coming here? But no. The sound didn’t stop. It continued on, fading as the automobile continued down the street.
She opened the oven door and removed the pan holding the pot roast and vegetables.
She didn’t care, of course, that it might have been Morgan’s automobile. It could as easily have been Harrison Carter’s or one of the two or three other local men who owned motorcars.
But it had sounded like Morgan’s to her.
A groan of frustration slipped from her lips. This was silly, the way she thought of him so often. Silly and totally un
like her.
I was rude to him this morning.
It was true. She’d walked away while he talked to Reverend Rawlings. She hadn’t spoken a word of good-bye. He had seemed appreciative that she’d allowed him to sit beside her, and she had responded with irritation and rudeness.
“I wanted to see you at worship. One can learn a lot about a person that way.”
What had he meant by that? Had he been sincere? And why did it matter to her anyway? If it weren’t for the election, they might never have met, and even if they had, they would have had nothing more than a passing acquaintance.
She recalled that moment, up at the resort site, when she’d felt herself sway toward him, when she’d thought he might kiss her, when she’d thought she might welcome his kiss, when —
“Gwennie,” Cleo said, “the table is set. Can I help with anything in here?”
“What?” Gwen turned to face her sister, who stood in the kitchen doorway. “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.” Not for anything in the world would she tell Cleo where her thoughts had been — or upon whom.
“Just wondered if I can help you with anything.”
“No. Dinner’s ready. Tell Dad to come inside. I’ll have everything on the table in a moment.”
Morgan followed Owen up to the boy’s house, carrying the damaged bicycle. Before they reached the front porch, the door opened and a woman — presumably Owen’s mother — stepped outside. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, and her face was lined with worry.
“Owen? What happened?”
“Nothin’, Ma. I fell off my bike, that’s all.”
The woman’s eyes shifted to Morgan.
“I saw him take the spill, Mrs. Goldsmith.” He set the bike on the ground, leaning it against the porch. “When I saw the bike was damaged, I offered to bring Owen home. His knee’s banged up.”
The woman knelt on the porch to examine Owen’s injury, saying not a word about the torn trouser leg.
From the look of things, Morgan guessed the Goldsmith family was none too prosperous. The house could use a coat of paint, and the porch sagged at one end. He wondered if they would have the funds to fix that bicycle wheel. Probably not. The kid’s spill would mean no bike riding for a while.
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