She took several long sips of milk and began mulling over what she should do with Rawhide Rick. She would need a villain in future books, and if she killed Josias before the end of The Dilemma of Marjorie Danforth, she’d best keep Judge Terrell around. But she was having a hard time making him as disreputable as he’d been in previous books. She kept imagining the transformation she could take him through were he to surrender to Christ. After all, the real Richard Terrell had been the worst kind of rogue, but God had converted him into a stellar citizen and a wonderful father and grandfather. At least that’s what Joshua had told her.
Joshua…
Her heart fluttered.
Oh, no. She wasn’t going to let the mere thought of his name make her feel anything other than anger, indignation, or irritation. Better yet, all three. No sympathy. None. Not now. Not ever. She was done with tears, done with wondering what might have been between them if he weren’t engaged to another woman. Her life without him had been and still was full and satisfying. She didn’t need a man—and certainly not one such as Joshua Crawford—to make her feel complete.
She finished eating her sandwich, drank the rest of her milk, and then carried her plate and glass to the sink, where she washed and dried them and put them away. A glance out the window revealed a wintery scene. What had been large lazy snowflakes drifting to earth as she prepared her sandwich had become a thick curtain of white. There must be another two inches of snow on the ground since the last time she’d looked outside.
“Maybe I need a holiday.”
Yes, that was a good idea. A trip someplace warm and sunny with a crystal-blue ocean and sandy gold beaches. As soon as this book was finished and mailed to Elwood Shriver at Shriver & Sons, she would make plans to leave. She would go after Christmas, though. She couldn’t be away for the holidays. Her young nephew was old enough this year to take great delight in wrapped packages and a big Christmas tree, and she didn’t want to miss that. But right after Christmas, she would go away. Perhaps she could get together some of her old friends from her college days—
No. She shook her head. Her friends were all married. She was the only one without a husband, and most of them had a child or two already. Who could she ask to go with her?
A knock on her front door interrupted her as she mentally ran through a list of people she knew.
If that was Edna Updike with the black-and-white kitten again—her neighbor had been over twice this week, trying to convince Daphne to give it a home when weaned—she feared she would shut the door in her face. She wasn’t in the mood to—
The open door revealed Joshua on the other side of the screen.
He removed his hat, sending a flurry of snow onto her front porch. “Daphne, may I speak with you?”
“You’ll have my column tomorrow.” She started to close the door.
“No. Wait. Please.”
Close the door…Close the door…Close the door…
“I need to explain.”
“No explanations are necessary.”
“You’re wrong. Hear me out, Daphne.”
Close the door…Close the door…Close the door…
“Please. Give me five minutes.” He held up his right hand, his thumb and fingers extended. “Just five minutes.”
Against her better judgment, she stepped back from the door and allowed him to enter. Memories of the last time she’d stood in this spot—in his arms, kissing him, him kissing her—flooded her thoughts as she turned and walked into the kitchen, putting plenty of distance between them.
Turning to face him once again, Daphne grasped the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Say whatever it is you need to say and then leave. I’m busy.”
“I came here from the train station. Miss Donahue and her cousin have returned to St. Louis.”
“That’s of no concern to me.”
“We’re not engaged, Mary Theresa and I.”
Her heart leapt with hope. An unwelcome sensation.
“I could give you a long explanation about my relationship with Miss Donahue, but I won’t. I’m not sure you’d believe me, even if I did.”
She steeled herself against listening to him, against forgiving him. “I’m quite sure I wouldn’t believe you.”
“Daphne—”
“Mr. Crawford, if you have nothing else to say, I believe you should go.”
He set his hat on his head. “I have plenty more to say to you, but I’ll go, as you wish.” He turned and opened the door, then glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not a bad man, Daphne. Just a flawed one. I shouldn’t have kissed you when I did, and I’m asking for your forgiveness.” A hint of a smile curved the corners of his mouth. “And I’ll kiss you again, but only when the time is right.”
The door had closed behind him before she could form a retort.
Oh, that insufferable man! As if she would allow him to get close enough to kiss her. That would never happen. Not a bad man? Ha! Scoundrel. Cad. Villain. Liar.
The urge to skewer him with words propelled her to her office and another writing session.
Joshua walked briskly toward the office of the Triweekly Herald, head bent into the blowing snowstorm, hand gripping his coat collar close at the throat.
For some inexplicable reason, he felt in far better spirits after seeing Daphne. Maybe it was because of the momentary lowering of her guard when he’d said he and Mary Theresa weren’t engaged. The cool look in her eyes had altered slightly. Only for a second, but he was certain he’d seen it. A look of optimism or anticipation or something similar. A look that said she might still care for him.
Yes, he would kiss her again, and next time, neither one of them would have cause to regret it.
TWENTY-SIX
Daphne set a cup of tea in front of her sister-in-law.
“Morgan and I were as surprised as anyone when we learned Mr. Crawford was engaged.” Gwen shook her head, a frown knitting her brow. “I do feel as if he betrayed us, not mentioning he had a fiancée in St. Louis.”
Now seated opposite Gwen, Daphne took a sip from her cup before answering. “He was under no obligation to do so. It was his private business. We were strangers to him. Why should he tell us?”
“But I thought…I thought you were forming an attachment to him.”
So did I. “Well, you were wrong.” We were all wrong. But I’m fine. Right as rain. He matters not at all to me. Still, she would rather talk of something else. “Did I mention that I’m nearly finished with my next book?”
Gwen laughed softly. “All right. I’ll change the subject. No, you didn’t mention anything about your book when I called this morning. I’m delighted to see you looking and acting more yourself. Will you allow me to read your manuscript before you send it to your publisher, now that you aren’t keeping it a secret from the family?”
“Absolutely not. You’ll have to wait until the book’s published, like everyone else.”
“And do you plan to ever let others know you’re D. B. Morgan?”
Maybe getting the third degree about her writing wasn’t preferable to talking about Joshua. “I haven’t decided. I think not. At least not yet.”
“Can you imagine Mrs. Updike’s outrage were she to learn you write those scandalous dime novels?”
The two of them laughed. Not that they meant to be unkind toward Edna Updike, but both of them had experienced her censure over the years. They knew it took very little to earn her disapproval.
Daphne wiped tears from her eyes. “Gretchen gave birth in my shed last Sunday. Mrs. Updike was positively beside herself when she came over to ask if I’d seen the cat. Now she’s trying to convince me to take one of the kittens when they’re weaned. She’s even told me her husband will drown them if she can’t find homes for the little ones.”
“Oh, dear.” All trace of amusement vanished from Gwen’s face. “That will never do.”
Daphne sobered as well. “No, it won’t do. I suppose I shall have to take one of them.” As she said t
he words aloud, she realized she wasn’t as opposed to the idea as she’d thought. It might be nice to have a companion in the house while she worked. Then another idea popped into her head, causing her to grin. “And I can give the other two to Andy and Ellie for belated Christmas presents.”
“Oh, Daphne. I’m not sure your brother would approve of that.”
“Leave him to me. I’ll help Morgan see that kittens will be the perfect gift from his children’s aunt.”
The South Fork had only a few customers when Joshua entered the restaurant that evening. Before walking to the table against the far wall, he said polite “hellos” to Mark Thurber and his sister, Ashley, then to Roscoe and Mabel Finch.
“Please tell Miss McKinley that I was delighted by her column in Monday’s paper,” Ashley Thurber said. “I had one of my students read it aloud to the rest of the class.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell her.”
Joshua draped his coat over the back of the second chair at the table and placed his hat on the seat. Then he sat in the other chair and perused the menu. He’d planned to cook something simple in the kitchen of his apartment, but when the time rolled around, his feet had brought him to the South Fork instead. Maybe because his apartment seemed too quiet, too empty.
The waitress, Sara Henley, arrived at his table with order pad in hand. “What can I get for you, Mr. Crawford?”
Over the past two months, Joshua had dined at the South Fork often enough that he knew Sara moderately well. He’d learned that she was a landscape artist, like his mother, and that she was bound for art school in the spring. His knowledge of oil paints, canvasses, lighting, and such was modest but good enough for Sara to delight in talking with him about them whenever he was in.
“I’ll have the beef stew tonight, Sara. Thanks.”
“It’s a good day for it. Colder than all git out.”
“Yes, it is.” He glanced toward the window, but all he could see beyond the glass was the blue-black of early nightfall.
“Anything to drink with your dinner?” Sara asked.
“Coffee, please.”
“I’ll have it out to you in a jiffy.”
Joshua leaned against the back of the chair, his thoughts turning immediately to Daphne. He had hoped to see her today when she brought in her column, but she’d come when he was out of the office. He didn’t think that had been by chance. She’d purposed it that way.
How was he to overcome her resistance, her anger, if she wouldn’t see him in passing, let alone give him a moment to apologize again, maybe even give him an opportunity to explain? Didn’t she realize there were always two sides to a story?
He wondered if God was amused by his plight. After all, it was his own hair-trigger temper that had played a part in bringing him to Bethlehem Springs. And even when he heard the truth about his grandfather, he hadn’t accepted it because it didn’t match what he believed. Those who disagreed with him could be hanged.
Now he wanted Daphne to listen to his side of the story, and she wouldn’t. It seemed he was getting his comeuppance.
Daphne looked at the two words near the bottom of the white sheet of paper: THE END.
She couldn’t believe how quickly she’d finished writing the book. The words had poured out of her at a record pace over the past few days. Perhaps because she’d needed to know how Josias Crenshaw would meet his demise. Rawhide Rick, now Judge Terrell in the fictional town of Beulah Springs, had sentenced Josias to be hanged by the neck until dead.
The plot was solid, and the resolution worked. The Dilemma of Marjorie Danforth might very well be the best novel she’d written. Funny, though. She wasn’t as pleased as she should be. Perhaps because she’d taken mental revenge on a real person with each stroke of the keys that punished Josias.
Vengeance belongeth unto me, I will recompense, saith the Lord.
She rolled the paper from the typewriter and set it, face down, on top of the rest of the manuscript. Tomorrow she would begin reading the story for errors. Right now all she wanted was a bite to eat and a good night’s sleep.
As she rose from the chair, she reached over and turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Was it really that late? Nightfall came early in December, but she hadn’t thought she’d been writing so long. No wonder she felt stiff. Massaging the small of her back with the fingers of her right hand, she left her office and walked to the kitchen.
When Gwen had come for a visit earlier in the day, she’d brought with her some fried chicken, leftovers from the previous evening’s meal. As far as Daphne was concerned, no one made better fried chicken than Opal Nelson, the McKinley cook. Now she took two pieces from the icebox and set them on a plate beside a biscuit smothered with honey. She didn’t bother warming anything on the stove. A cold meal was fine with her.
Seated at the table, she thanked the Lord for the food before her, adding another word of thanks for the completion of the book.
Vengeance belongeth unto me…
She tried to push the thought from her head. It was silly to let that verse plague her. God didn’t care what happened to a character in one of her novels. The content, as long as it wasn’t blasphemous, would be of little notice to the Maker of all creation.
Only that wasn’t true, and she knew it. Everything about her—all that she did, all that she wrote, all that she felt—mattered to her Father in heaven. He cared what went on in her heart and mind, and it was there, in her heart and mind, that she’d taken vengeance against Joshua.
And yet, hadn’t she the right to be angry with him? He’d kissed her when he was promised to another. That was wrong, any way a person looked at it.
Closing her eyes, she remembered the way she’d followed him to the door, almost upon his heels. She remembered the way he’d steadied her with his hands on her arms as she’d swayed toward him, the way their eyes had met, the way her breath had caught in her chest. When she’d known he was going to kiss her, she’d risen to meet him.
“I’m sorry, Miss McKinley,” he’d said when he pulled back.
Remembering stirred unwelcome emotions in her chest.
“I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me.”
No, he shouldn’t have kissed her when he was engaged to Miss Donahue. It had been wrong of him. But he’d apologized. He’d asked her to forgive him.
Could she?
Should she?
January 10, 1873
I have learned something about myself since I began writing this account of my life. I am poor at it. What should have taken me no more than two weeks has taken me thirteen months. But there is still a little more to tell, and so I will try to do so now. At least I can write about it without feeling the heaviness of heart over my disreputable past.
After I received the Lord’s forgiveness and became a Christian (I like to think my parents are rejoicing in heaven over the news, right along with the angels), I knew that I could not stay in the town where I had made my living selling alcohol to miners, misusing the girls who worked in my saloon, and doling out justice to the highest bidder. I wanted a new start. Samuel tried to dissuade me from leaving. He insisted that I was a testimony to the power of God to change a life. But I felt certain the Lord was calling me back to the place of my youth.
And so I sold my properties and business holdings. I made restitution wherever possible to those I’d harmed. Then I bid farewell to Samuel, my brother in the faith, and to the West where I had spent all of my adult life. Instead of returning to Missouri on horseback as part of a wagon train, the way I crossed the prairies and the mountains so long ago, I rode in the comfort of a railroad passenger car. I was twenty-four when I left Missouri. I was now fifty years old, my hair turning gray, my body not so lean and hard as it once was. I left Missouri an impoverished, uneducated lad. I returned a man of wealth with a great deal of book-learning and life experiences, if not formal education. Most importantly, I was going back as a man with a new heart and a desire to serve God wherever He
might want that to be.
I had no idea what work the Lord would have for me in St. Louis, but it was there He ultimately took me. I admit I sometimes grew impatient when doors for ministry didn’t open instantly before me. I realize now that God was seasoning me, that He had a great deal to teach me before I would be ready to be used of Him. Patience wasn’t my long suit, and I still needed to learn not to react when I became angry. “Be ye angry and sin not,” the Good Book says. I had a ways to go in that regard.
Looking back, I now believe that God also had two important people to bring into my life—Annie Lincoln and Kevin Donahue. Annie came first. She will always come first in my heart, right after Christ Himself.
I remember the first Sunday I saw her in church. It was the spring of 1871. She had the sweetest face and the bluest eyes I ever saw. When she chanced to look my way, I almost stopped breathing. And after I learned that she was an unmarried woman, I made it my business to make her acquaintance.
I have known many women in my life, but with the exception of my mother, Annie was the first true lady to enter my world. That she wanted to befriend me, too, was one of God’s miracles. That she learned to love me, even after I told her of my sinful past, was another.
We became engaged that summer, but Annie insisted that we wait until December to wed. I believe she wanted to give me time to change my mind—or for God to change it for me. But I knew in my heart of hearts that the Lord had arranged for us to be together. There would be no changing of my mind when it came to my beloved wife.
And so my story ends. At least the story of my old life. I have not written it down to share with others. It is for me alone. Perhaps I will read it every year on the anniversary of the day I was born again, just to remind myself of the amazing work God has done and to keep me headed in the right direction, lest I lose sight of the power of the Lord’s grace and mercy.
TWENTY-SEVEN
A frigid wind whistled down Main Street on Sunday morning. The snow on the ground, close to two feet deep, had turned icy, making travel difficult, even dangerous. Even many of the most faithful of churchgoers stayed home that morning rather than risk a fall.
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 63
