Emmeline, Bride of Arkansas

by Carra Copelin

  “I don’t know. I suppose it all depends on how close they are and how much they depend on each other.” She fussed with her skirts, then settled and glanced in the direction of the mountains. “My sister, Adeline, and I still do it sometimes.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten there was another sister.”

  “Adeline and I are twins.”

  “Good merciful heavens, you mean there are two of you?” He wanted to get a rise out of her and laughed when she slapped him on the arm.

  “Oh, you!” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Yes, I am,” he agreed.

  They rode in silence for a way, her contemplating her nails, while he decided if he should tell her about his suggestion. He realized either she’d agree or she wouldn’t.

  “Miss Weidner?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a proposal for you.”

  “I-I beg your pardon?”

  “I propose we put aside our differences, stop trying to out-do each other on our comments, and call each other by our given names.” He looked out beyond Sable’s nose, concentrating on the road ahead, while waiting for her response. He hoped she would take his peace offering, in the spirit it was intended, for he wanted to get to know her and they’d never manage it if they couldn’t get along for five minutes.

  “All right, Mr. B—um, Linc. Truth be told, it’s exhausting.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if choosing her next words carefully. “I’d like it very much if we could be friends.”

  “I find that very agreeable, Emmeline.” He held tightly to the reins as Sable made the climb up the mountain road. “Now that we’re friends, will you tell me what happened in Philadelphia?”

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  Her tone was innocence or denial, but he would get the truth. “Why didn’t you get married?”

  Emmeline stared directly at his ear. She could almost swear she saw daylight shining through from the other side. It took all the training she could muster, plus her staunch upbringing, to keep her from pummeling the man where he sat. How could he be so rude?

  “You simply cannot help yourself, can you?” she asked.

  The wagon pitched to the left, as the wheels encountered a few deep ruts from last spring’s rains. She grabbed hold of his arm to steady herself and to keep from being unceremoniously dumped into his lap. He had muscles as hard as granite, and she wondered, briefly, what it would be like to be held by him. Malcom had barely kissed her on the cheek, much less held her in his arms.

  When the road evened out and they were riding smoothly again, she continued, saying, “I can hardly see how knowing the details could benefit you, except that you could gloat over the fact that this society girl got dumped at the altar.”

  “Whoa, Sable!” He pulled back on the reins to halt the horse’s forward movement, and then tied them off. Turning in the seat to face her, he said, “What do you mean dumped? He didn’t show up?”

  “Oh, he showed up, all right, he just didn’t stay.” She fisted her hands in her lap. This was one of the most uncomfortable things she’d ever done.

  The Peter Weidner family didn’t discuss their feelings. Why, other than what Philadelphia’s initial response would be, she hadn’t discussed how she felt about the incident with anyone, not even with Adeline or Laurel. The humiliation still stung, and she closed her eyes against the tears she had yet to shed.

  “The bastard.” He covered her hands with his and asked, “What was his excuse?”

  “He didn’t offer one, he just said he was sorry.”

  “He sure as hell is.”

  And that was all it took. Tears slipped down her cheeks, her shoulders shook, and as the waterfall started in earnest, he pulled her into his arms. He held her close, until the tide slowed. She accepted the handkerchief he pulled from his pants pocket and gave to her.

  “Thank you.” She blew her nose and dabbed her eyes. “This must be what mother has referred to in the past, as a crying jag.”

  “I guess so.” He grinned. “Your first?”

  “Heavens, yes.” She returned his grin and drew her brows together. “Father says Weidner’s don’t show emotion. As a child, I often thought he might explode.” She returned his handkerchief, adding, “I’m sorry about your shirt.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re the one who gets to wash it.” He untied the reins, held them loosely, and asked, “Not that it’s important, but does this bastard have a name?”

  Heat flushed her face and she giggled. “Malcolm, but I rather like your name for him better.”

  “Malcolm? There’s your problem, right there. No real man wears a moniker like that.” He winked at her, shook the reins, and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Git-up, girl, let’s go.”

  She doubted his statement to be true, a name alone wasn’t the measure of a person. But she wanted to believe it, as it pertained to her situation. They rode a bit further in companionable silence, when she decided to ask some questions, too.

  “So, Linc, what are you doing in town that’s keeping you overnight?”

  “I sent some letters off a few days ago and I want to see if they’ve been answered.” He stretched his back and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. “At the time, too, it seemed like a good idea to put space between us. Maybe give Griffin and Laurel a break.”

  “I guess I ruined that, didn’t I?”

  “If you’d asked me that an hour ago, I might’ve agreed with you, but I understand, now. You have a right to be prickly.”

  She almost bristled, but saw his mouth kick up at the corner. “You’re teasing me again, aren’t you?”

  “A little. What about you? I’m surprised you’re going into town by yourself.”

  “Well, I’m sure you already know about the annual picnic?”

  “I do. Between the games and the food, it’s always a fun get-together.”

  “Well, a few days ago, some of the logger’s wives got together with us, at the house, to plan the one for this year. Tildie Waggoner was there, with a couple of ladies from town, and during tea, she told us about the theater group from Little Rock, that’s traveling through on their way to Texarkana.”

  “I do remember, before I left, there was talk about reviving the old abandoned concert hall.”

  “Tildie mentioned the repairs were completed late in the spring,” she said. “We talked about how we both love the theater, so she asked me to join her for tonight’s performance.”

  “I assume you’ll be staying at the hotel?”

  “No, she asked me to stay, with her and her husband, at the parsonage.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Was that disappointment in his voice? She didn’t know exactly how, but something had changed between her and Lincoln Bass today. Whatever that something was , she rather liked it.

  “I don’t know it you’d be interested, but I’m sure Tildie wouldn’t mind if you accompanied us tonight.” In her enthusiasm to include him, she forgot to ask, “Do you even enjoy the theater?”

  “Yes, if the play is good. I’ve seen most of Shakespeare’s plays.” He sat straight and pointed out ahead of them. “The town’s coming up, would you like me to drop you off at the parsonage?”

  “Thank you, yes, I’d like to get these baked goods inside before they dry out any further.”

  A few minutes later, Linc helped her out of the wagon and walked her to the door, where Tildie greeted them. The preacher’s wife said her hello’s, and then took the basket he was carrying into the coolness of the house.

  “Thank you again, for driving in this afternoon, Linc.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Shall we meet here around seven?”

  He touched the brim of his hat, and said, “I’ll be here.”

  Linc drove Sable and the wagon to the livery for the night, and then headed in the direction of the hotel. After he secured a room, he’d go to Babcock’s General
Store to check for responses to his letters.

  A few doors from the hotel, he saw Thatcher Whiteaker leave the establishment and walk across the street to Babcock’s General Store. That was interesting, since he was supposed to be working at the mill. Linc started to call his name, but thought better of it. He decided to follow him to see what he was up to.

  Babcock had rearranged the store, since the last time he’d been here and, to his credit, he had moved the telegraph and Post Office away from the entrance. They were now located at the rear of the building, which gave him space for more post office boxes, and it also afforded Linc the cover of the shelves to observe without being obvious.

  He watched Whiteaker go straight to the back of the store, to the window where Babcock was working on divvying up the mail. The two men exchanged a few words, and Whiteaker left after placing an envelope into his shirt pocket.

  Linc picked up a couple of items and went to the window. “Good afternoon, Mr. Babcock. Do you have anything for me?”

  “I believe I do.” He looked in a slot and retrieved two pieces of mail. He handed them through the opening and asked, “How are you? Is that leg on the mend?”

  Resisting the habit of running his hand over the offending limb, he said, “Getting better every day.”

  “That’s good to hear. The other men, and I, are hoping to have you on our team at the picnic.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. I let you down last year.”

  Babcock blushed and grinned. “Well, we understood, but we did hate losing.”

  Linc laughed at the comment, but he understood their disappointment. Remembering the man’s tendency to gossip, he asked, “Say, I was wondering if you can tell me anything about the man who was just here?”

  “He seems like a nice enough fella. Staying over at the hotel and taking most of his meals there.” He grinned again. “The ladies in town are all het up over how good lookin’ he is.” He looked over his shoulder, and then peered around Linc to the front of the store. In a conspiratorial whisper, he said, “Far be it from me to talk about my customers behind their backs, or put my nose into their business, but he’s sent several letters to other lumber companies and logging camps.”

  “That’s interesting.” Linc looked over his shoulder, too, and leaned closer to the window. “What do you think he’s up to?”

  Babcock backed away from the counter. With his hands up, palms facing Linc, he said, “Oh, I couldn’t say. You know I don’t get—”

  “Into other people’s business.” Linc managed to keep a straight face, when he said, “A very admirable quality.”

  The bell rang over the front door, and Babcock said in a normal voice, “If there’s nothing else . . .”

  “No, I appreciate your help and, if I don’t see you before, I’ll see you at the picnic.”

  Linc placed the items he’d picked up back on the shelf. He had only snagged them in case he’d encountered Whiteaker and needed a reason for being in the store. He reached the hotel in just a few minutes’ walk, and found the logger waiting for him on a bench outside.

  “Whiteaker, what brings you to town?”

  “A little personal business, how about you?”

  “Business business.”

  “Unless I’ve missed my guess,” Whiteaker stated, “Our business may be related.”

  “Agreed, can I buy you a drink?

  “I’ll drink a beer.”

  “I need to secure a room first.” Linc picked up his suitcase. “I’ll meet you in the hotel bar in half an hour.”

  While in his room, Linc took the time to read the letters he’d received, one from a logging camp in Minnesota, and one from the sawmill in North Arkansas. Minnesota was a bust, as they’d never employed a Jimmerson Tolbert or a Thatcher Whiteaker, but the Arkansas mill was a different story. As he read the missive, he realized the answer to one of his questions wasn’t anywhere near what he’d thought.

  Pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl, he rinsed his face and the back of his neck, dried off, finger-combed his hair, and headed downstairs for a drink and an explanation.

  Linc spotted Thatcher standing at the bar and joined him. The bartender set a beer in front of him and went back to drying glasses. The two men drank in silence for a couple of minutes before Linc took the lead.

  “Thatcher, I don’t think I’m going too far out on a limb here, in assuming you’ve been talking to Babcock, same as me.”

  “Indeed, I have. He tells me you’ve been sending letters to various sawmills in the surrounding states.” He drained his glass and signaled the bartender. “You looking for a job, Linc?”

  “Yeah, just about as hard as you are.” He pulled the North Arkansas letter from his shirt pocket and laid it on the bar. “I picked this up today. Care to fill me in?”

  7

  L inc drank a few sips of his beer and waited while the man gathered his thoughts. He understood how difficult this must be to talk about.

  Thatcher finished his second beer, and waved the bartender off for a third. He picked up the letter, folded it, and handed it back to Linc.

  Finally, he said, “John Thatcher was my uncle, my mother’s youngest brother. He started Thatcher Sawmill just after the war with money he’d saved from his early logging days. Like Henry Sealy, Uncle John worked to expand the mill, and in a few short years, Thatcher Sawmill supported the economy of that area.

  “One day, he suffered a heart attack. The doc said, more than likely, it stemmed from the year he spent as a prisoner of war.”

  “I’m sorry he had to deal with that,” Linc said. There wasn’t a family who had escaped the harshness of the war in some way. Even though he was young, Linc remembered the toll it had taken on his own family.

  “Yeah, it was tough on him,” Thatcher continued, “But he survived. Unfortunately, the doc limited his time at the mill. John didn’t want to sell, so to keep the business going, he hired Jimmerson Tolbert to run it.”

  Except for the reason, that’s exactly what Griffin had done. He’d hired an experienced man, Tolbert, to help run the office. Linc’s interest and curiosity in the results of that hiring were more than piqued. “How’d that work out?”

  “As it turned out, not as well as he’d hoped it would. Uncle John’s letters to my mother were upbeat in the beginning, but became less and less enthusiastic, and less frequent. He was having a hard time making ends meet and closing the mill seemed his only option. At my mother’s urging, I traveled to the mill, to offer my help in getting things back on track. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived, the mill had been burned to the ground, and Uncle John was dead.

  “The local inquiry into the fire found that, in his despondency, Uncle John had deliberately set the fire to collect the insurance money. He had died from his efforts, and caused serious injury to Tolbert, who discovered him and tried to save him from the flames.” He signaled the bartender and pointed to his glass. He glanced to Linc and asked, “You?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  After the bartender brought him another beer, he continued, “The Thatcher Sawmill, and our family, suffered a devastating blow that night. Tolbert told the board of inquiry the fire was so advanced when he discovered it, that it was only with great effort by the loggers, that the planing mill and lumber yard were saved. The offices and most of the logger’s barracks and homes burned to the ground.”

  “That’s when you decided to sell?”

  “Yes. Uncle John left the mill to my mother. The estimated cost to rebuild the sawmill, which had a daily cutting capacity of 75,000 feet, was $40,000. With only a part of that amount covered by insurance, there was no way we could afford to do it. Besides, you could fit in one of ma’s thimbles what any of us knew about running a sawmill, and Tolbert wasn’t in any shape to help.

  “We sold the mill to a company from back east, who had the money to invest. They soon announced that the mill would be rebuilt, and to the extent possible, company employees would be used to rebui
ld it to maintain their jobs. They did it, and I understand it’s back running at a profit.”

  “That’s essentially what’s in this letter,” Linc said.

  “Yep.”

  “Then, if the inquiry found your uncle to blame, and your family sold the business, why have you been bird dogging Tolbert for the past year?”

  “Some months after everything was settled, we received the remainder of Uncle John’s belongings from the lawyer who handled his estate. Included in the box were past records from the mill, some personal items, his bible, and a rather large packet.”

  Linc had a suspicion where this was going. “What did you find?”

  “Detailed bookkeeping for the mill for the last six months and, what appeared to be a second set of records. What do you make of that?”

  “I would say your uncle suspected Tolbert of skimming off the top.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  Griffin had been worried about a possible arsonist, but Linc was sure a bookkeeper hadn’t entered his mind. It surely hadn’t crossed his. “Thatcher, would you be willing to join forces with Griffin and I to investigate this further? We might have better success.”

  Thatcher downed what was left of his beer, and thrust his hand toward Linc. “I’m your guy.”

  Emmeline sat at the table, in the brightly decorated kitchen, waiting for Tildie’s reaction to the chocolate cake she’d brought. It wasn’t her first effort, or even her second, but she had high hopes this latest attempt would pass Flat Rock Point’s most discriminate chocolate lover. Finally, when she couldn’t stand the wait any longer, she shifted in her chair and cleared her throat.

  “Tildie, please don’t keep me waiting any longer,” she urged. “What do you think?”

  The woman, known for her skill at baking throughout the county, took another bite and closed her eyes like the judges at the county fair. “Well . . . the texture is light, yet it doesn’t fall apart on the plate, and the chocolate is sweet not bitter.”

  “Yes, but is it something I can contribute to the picnic?”