Charlene accepted two envelopes, willing her hands not to tremble. Seeing that Mr. Foster was busy restocking his shelves and there were no other customers in the store, she withdrew into a far corner and examined her mail.
Both envelopes were addressed to C. Matkin. Both displayed Baltimore postmarks. One bore unfamiliar handwriting, but to her vast relief, the return address on the other was inscribed with the name of Howard Emerson.
She tore at it with eager hands, ripping it wide open in her haste. An oblong piece of paper fluttered to the floor, and she bent to retrieve it. Hallelujah, there was the bank draft!
A quick glance showed her the amount covered all the stories submitted over the previous two months, and she murmured a prayer of thanks. Once she cashed the draft, she would make a sizeable dent in Abel Foster’s inventory. Her attention now turned to the letter in her hand.
My dear Charlie,
You must have been wondering at my long silence. I apologize for this, and for any inconvenience caused you by the delay of payment for your stories. Their popularity continues unabated. Readers constantly flood us with praise for Nick Rogers’s adventures and pleas for many more. I feel confident that you can look forward to a long and successful relationship with this paper.
I tell you this because I have some news to share. My delay in writing was caused by recurring bouts of illness. I have been in a doctor’s care for a number of weeks now, and he holds out little hope for complete recuperation unless I make some changes. I am sorry to say my ill health has forced me to sell the paper. I plan to retire to a small community near the area where I grew up, and I trust that freedom from the pressures of business will hasten my recovery.
Charlene’s fingers shook so hard she could barely see the quivering letters on the page. Concern for Mr. Emerson’s health merged with fears for her own future. Would the new owner continue to use her stories? Even if he did, what would become of Charlie Matkin once the new owner discovered that Charlie was really Charlene? She smoothed the letter out on a shelf before her and continued to read.
I want to reassure you that Matthew Benson, the new owner, is fully aware of your contribution to the success of this paper and has every intention of continuing to publish your stories at the rate we are currently paying you. I can recommend him to you as an honorable man with sound business sense and solid character. In closing, I also want you to rest assured that he knows you only as “Charlie” and that your secret remains safe with me.
Your friend,
Howard Emerson
Charlene’s head swam as she tried to grasp the new situation. She had felt the very foundation of her income rock beneath her, but if she read Mr. Emerson’s meaning correctly, it seemed all was safe, at least for the moment. The new owner believed she was a man.
With a shaky breath, she drew the letter from the second envelope and glanced at the signature. Matthew Benson! Unable to decide whether she should feel a sense of relief or foreboding, Charlene read on.
Dear Mr. Matkin,
I hope that one day I may call you Charlie, as Mr. Emerson does. I hasten to assure you that the change in ownership of this paper will in no way alter your status here. Your stories have played an important part in making the paper the success it is, and we look forward to a long and fruitful association.
Your descriptions of the beautiful land in which you live have filled me with the desire to see the scenes from your stories firsthand—so much so that I have made arrangements to travel to northern Arizona as soon as possible. If all goes well, I should arrive there on the seventeenth or eighteenth of this month. I look forward to making your acquaintance in person and meeting the author who has so stirred my imagination.
Sincerely yours,
Matthew Benson
It must be a dream, Charlene decided. It had to be a dream for a day to take her from near-penniless status to financial well-being, from concern for a friend’s health to hope for his recovery, from anxiety over the sale of the paper to relief at a secure future. To go from there to the dread of her identity being discovered and losing that security could have no basis in reality. None.
She would close her eyes and count to three. When she opened them, she was sure she’d find herself tucked safely in her own snug bed. She squeezed her eyes shut.
One… two…
“You all right, Charlene?” She opened her eyes to find Abel Foster staring at her. A concerned frown wrinkled his brow. “You look a mite peaked there.”
She reassured him that she was perfectly fine and began to gather her papers together. Apparently, this dream wouldn’t be so easy to shake off. Over Mr. Foster’s shoulder, she caught sight of the store calendar, each day neatly marked off with an X until it reached the current date, the eighteenth.
The eighteenth! Fumbling through the papers, she drew out the letter from Matthew Benson and scanned it with a rising sense of panic. If his journey went according to plan, he could arrive that very day!
Her mind in a whirl, Charlene made plans of her own as she stuffed the papers into the pocket of her dress. First, she would cash the bank draft and stock up on supplies. Then if the worst happened and Mr. Benson did arrive only to sever the paper’s relationship with her, he wouldn’t be able to take back the payment she had received. She and Jed would have something to live on for a time until they figured out what to do next.
The stamping of hooves and the creak of heavy wheels broke into her thoughts, and she realized the stage was just pulling in. Hurrying to the doorway, she peered out cautiously and watched the passengers disembark.
A worn-looking woman and two children were handed down first. Good. No Matthew Benson there. Her relief grew when a buckskin-clad man stepped down and stretched mightily. She turned back into the store with a renewed sense of hope when she heard a baritone voice call, “Can anyone direct me to the Matkin residence?”
Breathlessly, Charlene flattened herself against the doorjamb and eased her head just beyond its edge. She watched a broad-shouldered man emerge from the stagecoach. His rugged physique in no way fit her notion of what a newspaper editor should look like, but who else could possibly be looking for her? Or rather, for the nonexistent Charlie Matkin?
Her dream had just turned into a nightmare.
Chapter 2
Charlene backed away from the door, trying not to make a sound. She continued moving past the counter, along the table containing bolts of calico, toward the back door, all the while straining to see anyone who might come in the front entrance.
“They live about four miles out of town.” A man’s booming voice answered the newcomer’s question. “But I could have sworn I saw Miss Matkin around here just a few minutes ago. Let’s go check in the store.”
The shuffle of boots entering the store drowned out the tiny squeak the back door made as Charlene let herself out and eased it shut again. Sidling along the back of the building, she slipped quietly around the corner and sprinted for her wagon.
She reached it unseen and gave herself a moment to recover before she climbed into the seat, released the brake, and clucked to the horses. Holding them to a sedate walk, she made her way along the alley until she reached the edge of town. Then she snapped the reins and urged them into a fast trot.
“I can’t believe I just skulked out of town like that!” she muttered aloud. “Why should I go hightailing off like a fugitive just because that man showed up?” Because that man represents your source of income. The acknowledgment gnawed at her.
How could this have happened? There she had been, stranded at home by the weather, happily churning out her stories, oblivious to what was happening in Baltimore. And all the while, plans were being set in motion that might bring her newfound prosperity to an end.
“What can I do, Grandpa?” She paced past Jed’s chair to the living room window and back again, wringing her hands. “I can’t lie to him, but if he finds out I’m a woman, the paper might never print another one of my stories.”
Charlene turned this solution over in her mind while she scurried around, trying to ready the house for their visitor. Would it work? More importantly, was it right? They wouldn’t really be lying, she reasoned. They would just let Mr. Benson draw his own conclusions. It would only be for a short while, surely no more than the time it took for him to sit and visit a bit. After that, he’d be safely back in Baltimore, and she could continue writing and sending Charlie’s stories as before.
Grabbing a dust rag, she flicked it over the furniture while calculating the time it would take him to hire a buggy and find the way to their place. Maybe he would get lost along the way. That would slow him down a bit. Her conscience tingled a warning at her uncharitable attitude.
All right, she thought, offering a compromise, he said he was interested in seeing the area. Maybe he’ll take his time enjoying the sights along the road. She didn’t wish the man any harm— she just wanted time to be ready before he arrived. She stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the tidy room. Twitching a curtain into place and straightening a picture frame, she decided the house was as ready as she could make it.
Now, what to do about refreshments? Her hands flew to her cheeks when she remembered she hadn’t had time to cash the bank draft and replenish their scanty provisions. Scrabbling through the cupboards, she found flour, molasses, everything she needed to make a molasses cake. Perfect. She had it mixed and in the oven in minutes. Setting the coffeepot on the stove, she nodded approval and went down a mental checklist. The house was neat and food was in the making—it was enough to make Mr. Benson welcome, but not enough to encourage him to prolong his visit.
She began to relax and patted her hair into place. Then she noticed the flour caked on her hands. Looking down, she saw white dust streaked across her dress. Of all the times to forget to wear an apron! She fled to her room to wash up.
It took only a moment to bathe her flushed face and slip into a clean dress. Her hair had escaped from its pins during her mad rush to get ready, and loose strands hung untidily about her face. Pulling the pins out in haste, she yanked a brush through her ash-blond strands, wincing as it caught in the tangles. With her hair tied back neatly in a ribbon, Charlene pressed her hands against her warm cheeks and tried to breathe normally.
Please don’t let him stay for supper. She sent the quick prayer heavenward. No sooner had the words formed in her mind than she heard the rattle of buggy wheels outside, followed by a knock on the door. It was the moment of truth—or something close to it.
Jed sat waiting in his usual chair when she entered the living room and cast him a despairing glance. His nod of approval and reassuring wink did little to calm her jitters. Resting one hand on the door latch, she took a deep breath and swung the door open.
The man standing before her was indeed the stranger she had seen dismounting from the stage. His shoulders were just as broad as Charlene remembered, his build just as rugged. She hadn’t noticed his hair, though. Russet waves with glints of gold framed a strong, square face. Full lips parted to reveal even, white teeth.
Her gaze traveled upward and she found herself staring into the deepest, warmest brown eyes she had ever seen. Flecks of gold echoing the glints in his hair shone from pools of melted chocolate, and Charlene felt drawn into their depths. She didn’t realize she’d been staring until that breath-taking smile faltered.
“This is the Matkin residence, isn’t it?”
Jed spoke up from across the room. “Of course it is. Come on in, young feller.”
Charlene blinked and stood back to admit their guest. “I’m terribly sorry.” She could barely force the words out. “You must be—” Her mind went blank and she cast about, frantically trying to recall the name on the letter.
“Matthew Benson.” He turned his hat in his hands, as if confused by her greeting. His eyes widened and he added, “You did get my letter, didn’t you?”
Appalled by her rudeness, Charlene sputtered out an answer. “Oh yes. Your letter. It came. Yes, indeed.”
Matthew Benson shifted from one foot to the other and darted an uncertain glance between her and Jed. “I hope I’m not imposing.”
“Not a bit,” Jed called out in a cordial tone. “We’re happy to have you here.”
Charlene smoothed her skirt with shaking hands and recovered enough to cross the room and stand at Jed’s side. “This is my grandfather.” She wet her lips nervously. “Jedediah Charles Matkin.” She looked at Jed, seeking his approval, and was heartened by the confident gleam in his eyes.
“Mr. Matkin.” Matthew leaned over Jed’s chair and pumped his hand eagerly. “I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed your stories. I’ve been one of your most devoted readers, even before the newspaper changed hands.”
Jed nodded acknowledgment of the compliment, and Matthew beamed. Charlene noted the way Matthew’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and she wondered at the fluttering in her stomach.
“Your stories,” Matthew continued. “They’re more than just entertainment. They have stirred my imagination and created a burning desire to see the people and settings you’ve brought to life. I am truly honored to meet you, sir.”
Jed had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. “You’re a younger feller than I expected,” he said, in what Charlene saw as an obvious attempt to change the subject. “I’m surprised you’d own a big city newspaper at your age.”
Matthew’s neck grew red at the praise. “I guess it would seem a little surprising, although twenty-eight isn’t really all that young.”
He shifted back to his original topic. “As I understand it, the stories are all based on your actual experiences. Is that right, Charlie?” This time the wave of red washed clear up to his hairline. “May I call you Charlie?” he asked with a tentative smile. “That’s how Howard Emerson always referred to you, and I’m afraid I picked up the habit. I don’t mean to be presumptuous…”
“No offense taken.” Jed waved his hand with a gracious air. “But why don’t you call me Jed? I’m more used to that. Charlie is more what I guess you’d call a pen name.” He gave Charlene a quick wink she hoped Matthew didn’t see.
“Thank you—Jed. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here.” He seemed to run out of accolades at that point, and the three of them maintained their positions in silence— Jed appearing relaxed and confident in his chair, Charlene standing next to him, hands folded across her skirt, and Matthew looking like a little boy who’d just been given a whole jar of cookies.
Charlene began to relax a bit, heartily approving of Matthew’s apparent lack of anything more to add. It was evident he had said what he’d come to say and would soon take his leave to begin his tour of the West. Surely it was safe to offer refreshments at this point to speed the process along and hasten his departure.
“Would you care for some molasses cake and coffee? It should be about ready now.”
Matthew glanced at the slender young woman. His lips parted to answer, but the reply caught in his throat. She’d seemed so solemn when she opened the door, but now a smile lit her face, transforming it. Sunlight streaming through the window behind her played upon the strands of hair that curled in wisps about her face, turning them into a golden halo. He opened and closed his mouth, aware that he was supposed to be saying something, but unable to remember what it might be.
Jed cleared his throat. “My granddaughter, Charlene.”
Charlene ducked her head and flushed a rosy pink, obviously embarrassed by his scrutiny. Matthew could have kicked himself for being such a dolt.
He sniffed appreciative
ly at the aroma wafting from the oven, determined to make amends. “I’d love some cake.”
Light with relief at the prospect of ending this meeting with her secret still undiscovered, Charlene doled out portions of molasses cake with a lavish hand. Both Jed and Matthew did her baking justice, washing down the generous servings with mugs of hot coffee.
“Miss Matkin,” Matthew said, “that was the most delicious cake I’ve had in ages.”
Charlene, happier with each second that ticked by, smiled and nodded her thanks.
“Call her Charlene,” Jed put in. He chuckled when Matthew gave him a startled glance. “We’re not near as formal here as folks back east.”
“I—uh, I see,” Matthew said. “Then let me offer my compliments again… Charlene.” He turned the warmth of his brown eyes on her again, and her stomach did flip-flops. Confused at her reaction, she rose and began clearing the table, reminding herself that her ordeal was nearly over.
It hadn’t been as hard as she feared. Neither she nor her grandfather had actually given Jed credit for the Charlie Matkin stories. She could breathe a lot easier, knowing they hadn’t come right out and lied to Matthew—Mr. Benson, she corrected herself, determined to keep things on a professional level in spite of his dazzling good looks. On the other hand, they hadn’t been totally forthright with him, either. But she couldn’t think about that now.
How much longer would he stay—five minutes? Ten? Surely no more than fifteen. Lost in speculation, she finished tidying the kitchen, content to know that within half an hour, at the most, life would return to normal. She poured herself another mug of coffee and leaned back against the kitchen counter, listening idly for Matthew Benson to take his leave.
Where the Heart Is Romance Collection Page 58