Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs]

by A Matter of Character

  Daphne had three choices—the Gold Mountain, which served the most wonderful breakfasts; the restaurant inside the Washington Hotel where she liked to dine before an evening at the Opera House; and the South Fork, famous for their pies and home-style fare. She decided on the latter.

  As she walked briskly along Wallula Street toward Main, her way was lit by street lamps, one of many improvements made during Mayor Gwen McKinley’s term of office, which had ended almost ten months earlier. Daphne thought it unfortunate for the town that her sister-in-law had retired from public service. She hoped that, when her nephew and niece were older, Gwen would run for office again.

  As Daphne neared the office of the Daily Herald, she noticed light spilling through the windows of the apartment above it, something she’d never seen before. Was the newly widowed Christina Patterson up there, perhaps sorting through memorabilia from her marriage? Should Daphne postpone her evening meal another hour and see if she could offer the woman any comfort or assistance?

  Nathan Patterson’s death had been a shock to the town. A man of thirty-seven years, he’d looked in the pink of health. To have him weaken and die so suddenly had taken everyone, especially his wife, by surprise. And even while they grieved the loss of a friend, many wondered about the future of the Daily Herald. It had been almost a week since the last edition. What would become of the newspaper without Nathan at its helm?

  A shadow fell across the nearest window, and Daphne stopped on the sidewalk, still pondering what she should do. Would Christina welcome a visit from her or had she gone up there to escape intrusion? Daphne remembered all too well how difficult the death of a loved one could be. She’d been a girl of sixteen when her beloved father died, a young woman of twenty when she’d lost her mother. Even now, all these years later, she felt a painful sting in her chest, knowing she wouldn’t see either of them again this side of heaven.

  She also remembered that sometimes she’d wanted to be alone with her memories, alone to cry and mourn. And so she decided not to disturb the new widow and instead moved on, rounding the corner onto Main Street and entering the South Fork Restaurant a few moments later.

  Delicious scents filled the dining room, making her stomach grumble once again. It was late enough that the dinner crowd had come and gone. There were customers at only two tables—Mabel and Roscoe Finch, who worked for her brother and sister-in-law, and Ashley Thurber, the elementary school teacher. Daphne greeted each one of them before sitting at a table in the corner, her back to the wall. Whenever she dined out, she preferred similar seating. It allowed her to study others without being too obvious. She loved to watch and listen to people. She’d learned a great deal from the habit, and much of what she’d learned had made it into her stories at one time or another.

  Sara Henley—a shy, plain girl of eighteen—approached Daphne, a pad in her hand and a smile on her face. “Evening, Miss McKinley.”

  “Good evening, Sara.” Daphne returned the girl’s smile. “How are you?”

  “Wonderful.” Sara lowered her voice. “My dad’s agreed I can study art. I won’t leave for school until spring, and I have to save every cent I earn to help cover my expenses. But all winter I can look forward to going.”

  Daphne touched the back of Sara’s hand with her fingertips. “I’m glad for you. You have a wonderful talent. You must promise that you’ll write and tell me all about the school and its instructors once you’re there.”

  “’Course I will. If it wasn’t for your encouragement, I never would’ve had the nerve to ask my dad to let me go.”

  Daphne had done little besides tell Sara that she shouldn’t give up on her dreams, no matter how long it took, that God could open doors in surprising ways if she would simply trust Him. But she was glad Sara had found her words to be helpful and even more glad that Sara’s father had consented. “I believe art school will be the making of you. Wait and see if I’m not right.”

  Sara blushed bright red. “I’d better take your order, Miss McKinley.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “Mr. Boyle will wonder what’s keeping me.”

  “Is there any meatloaf left?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll have. With gravy on the potatoes, please.”

  “I’ll bring it right out.”

  As Sara disappeared into the restaurant kitchen, the front door opened, letting in the cool night air along with a man Daphne had never seen before. He was tall, at least six feet, perhaps a little more. He had brown hair that was shaggy near his collar, and unless the poor light in the restaurant deceived her, there was the shadow of a beard under the skin of his jaw and upper lip.

  Who was he? Not a cowboy nor a miner. That was clear by the clothes he wore. His suit appeared of good quality, but even from where she sat she could tell it had seen its share of wear. A man of trade perhaps or a salesman. Definitely not a guest of her brother’s spa, for he looked neither wealthy nor in poor health.

  At that moment, the stranger turned his head and his gaze met hers. She swallowed a gasp of surprise. Good heavens! He had the most astonishing eyes. What color were they? She wished she could tell. So pale. Perhaps blue. Or maybe a silvery-gray. No, they were blue. She was sure of it. And she seemed unable to look away, even when she knew she should. Thankfully, he broke the connection and moved to a table, sitting in a chair with his right side toward her.

  Daphne drew a hungry breath into her lungs. Until that moment she hadn’t known she’d held it.

  Could I capture his eyes with words? What a character he would make. He could be Bill’s friend. Perhaps he could ride with him for the next few adventures. What name should I give him?

  She pulled a small notebook and the stub of a pencil from her pocket and made a few notes to herself.

  In Daphne’s fourth, fifth, and sixth novels, her hero, Bill McFarland, had courted a woman in Idaho City, but she’d grown tired of waiting for him to propose and had married someone else. Perhaps this new friend with his magnetic eyes could help Bill find the right woman, one who wouldn’t object to his adventurous spirit. Then again, Bill would have to watch out or his new friend might steal the right woman for himself.

  The thought caused her to glance up from her notebook—only to discover he was looking in her direction. Her breath caught for a second time and a blush warmed her face as she dropped her gaze again. Oh, yes. Mr. Blue Eyes would definitely make things interesting for the readers of The McFarland Chronicles.

  She hoped her dinner would arrive soon. Another late-night writing session was looming.

  December 5, 1871

  There comes a time in a man’s life when it seems prudent that he look hard at his past, to remember from whence he came, to learn to be grateful for God’s mercy, perhaps even for the purpose of becoming a cautionary tale for others. And so I have decided to write an account of my life, from beginning to the present, knowing all the while that the future will be significantly different from those years that have gone before.

  In truth, I already know that my life will soon change for the better. I know this because, at the age of fifty, I am about to take a wife. No former associate of mine could be more surprised at this news than I am. I never believed I was the marrying kind. Nor would I have believed a woman as fine as my Annie would agree to be my wife, especially after she learned of my less than pristine past.

  But I am getting ahead of myself. A record of my life should begin at the beginning. And so it shall.

  I was born on a small farm in Missouri in the winter of 1821, the youngest of five children, all boys. My parents came to the region after the War of 1812, along with many other settlers. Like most everyone they knew, my parents were poor. They eked out a living the only way they knew how, through hard work and sweat and tears. They weren’t educated, and they yearned for something quite different for their children.

  It amazes me, as I look back, that my mother managed to teach her sons so much when she never attended school
a day in her life. Not that I appreciated her efforts back then. All I wanted when I was a lad was to go fishing or hunting or even just to lie on my back on a hot summer day and watch the clouds drift by. Still, despite my lack of enthusiasm, I learned to read and write and do arithmetic. I even came to appreciate, albeit many years later, the wisdom and enjoyment that could be found in books.

  My parents were god-fearing people, but since there was no church within easy distance of our farm, it fell to my father and mother to see that their sons came to know the Bible and to embrace the tenants of the Christian faith. In this regard, I was even less enthusiastic. Rebellion resided in my stubborn heart, and it did not matter if my father took a strap to me or my mother sweetly entreated me. I would not yield.

  Perhaps, given enough time, I might have come to know the God my parents believed in. But there wasn’t enough time. They died of the fever when I was eight years old, along with two of my brothers. Moses was ten and Oliver was nine. That was in the winter of 1829. February, I believe. There was deep snow on the ground and the temperatures were frigid. My surviving two brothers could manage no more than shallow graves as the ground was frozen hard.

  I have never confessed this to a living soul, but I cried myself to sleep at night more often than not in the months that followed.

  My two oldest brothers, Jefferson and Lyman, took over running the farm and raising me. They did the best they were able, them being just boys themselves, Jefferson not yet eighteen, Lyman only sixteen. I wish now that I had appreciated them more.

  After I stopped crying myself to sleep at night, anger took the place of tears. I was angry with everyone, and my temper got me into plenty of trouble. I was fourteen the year I hit Lyman so hard I broke his nose. Of course, he gave me back in kind. A few weeks later, I struck out on my own.

  I never knew what happened to my brothers. By the time I got to an age and a place where I wanted to get in touch with them, where I would have liked to see them again, they were gone. I was told they sold the farm and nobody knew where they went from there.

  I have often wondered if they are still alive. I wonder if they think of me and wonder the same.

  TWO

  Joshua had stayed up late, cleaning and arranging his new living quarters, but he still managed to arise before daybreak. His employer, the Widow Patterson, had said she would meet with him in the newspaper office at eight o’clock. That gave him time to wash, shave, and go to the South Fork for breakfast. Later today he must purchase supplies at the mercantile. Dining out would soon deplete his limited funds. Fortunately, his grandfather had taught him how to eat well, even on a meager income.

  “It’s important you learn to fend for yourself, boy,” his grandfather had often told him. “Never depend on others to do for you what you can do for yourself.”

  Outside, dawn had lightened the sky enough that he could see Main Street below. How much, he wondered, had the town changed since his grandfather lived here? It had to be a great deal, for Richard Terrell had left Idaho in the winter of 1871, close to half a century ago. Joshua knew very little about his grandfather’s life before he’d returned to St. Louis. The old man had rarely talked about it, except to say the Idaho Territory was where he’d found Christ.

  “That’s when my life really began, Josh,” he’d told his grandson. “There I was, closing in on fifty years old, and God made me a new man. The old me, the old sinner, was gone and forgotten. By God, anyway. Sometimes I remember, and it makes me all the more thankful for what He did for me. Without Jesus, I’d never have returned to St. Louis. Without the Holy Spirit’s nudging, I’d never have met and married your grandmother, and I’d never have fathered Angelica or become your grandfather. So nothing before my life in Christ matters one whit to me. Everything good came after that.”

  There was no man, living or dead, whom Joshua admired more than his grandfather. Although Richard Terrell had passed away fourteen years ago, Joshua’s memories of him were strong. He wanted to emulate his grandfather in every way possible—in his acts of kindness, in his generosity, in his integrity, in his faith, in his forbearance. Perhaps especially in his forbearance. Losing patience, allowing his temper to flare, was one of Joshua’s greatest faults and was partly to blame for his being in Bethlehem Springs with little money in his pocket.

  With a shake of his head, he turned from the window and walked toward the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he entered the restaurant next door. Unlike the previous evening, the South Fork was doing a brisk business, and two waitresses were needed to see to the needs of the customers. The same girl who had waited on Joshua the night before showed him to one of the few empty tables.

  “You must’ve liked your supper last night if you’ve come back so soon.” She handed him a menu, and when he looked at her, she blushed scarlet and lowered her eyes. “Would you like coffee to start off with?”

  “Yes, thank you. I would.”

  She scurried away.

  Joshua studied the menu for a few moments and was ready to order by the time the waitress returned with his coffee. As she set the cup on the table before him, he said, “I wonder if you could help me with something. I’m looking for a D. B. Morgan. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head. “Never heard of anybody by that name in these parts.”

  He thanked her, then gave his order. He would have better success finding Mr. Morgan once he spoke with his new employer. Newspaper folks knew everyone by name in a small town. It was the same everywhere.

  Bleary-eyed, Daphne made her way to the kitchen, where she set about making herself a pot of coffee. There were days when she wished she had a maid and a cook to take care of her. She could certainly afford such luxuries, but she would hate having others about the house while she worked.

  Once the coffeepot was on the stove, she went to the door to see if a newspaper had been left on the front porch. There wasn’t one. Again. Disappointment shot through her. How much longer would Bethlehem Springs be cut off from news of the country and the world?

  “Maybe I should offer Mrs. Patterson my services,” she said aloud.

  Drawing the collar of her dressing gown together against the chilled morning air, she closed the door. But as she turned toward the kitchen, the thought repeated itself. Perhaps she should offer Christina Patterson her services. Before Gwen married Morgan, she’d written a regular column for the Daily Herald. Daphne could do the same. In fact, there were probably several roles she could fill, at least until Christina hired someone to manage and edit the newspaper for her.

  The idea of tackling something new held more than a little appeal. She could let Bill’s next adventure sit and stew for a while. She’d hit another wall with her writing late last night and was back to wondering if she should kill Rawhide Rick or perhaps draw the chronicles to a close. Even that new unnamed character with the astonishing eyes couldn’t seem to stir her creativity. It might do her good to step back from the story for a while. It would be temporary. A few weeks or a couple of months at most. That’s all. She could help a widow in her time of grief and provide a service for the town, and when she returned to her latest story, she could do so with renewed enthusiasm and fresh ideas.

  She sighed, thinking how nice it would be if she could talk to someone about this book and the problems she was having with it. Her sister-in-law would be the ideal person. Gwen was adept at looking at things from many different angles. She could probably come up with solutions for Daphne’s latest novel in short order.

  Two weeks ago, Gwen had asked Daphne if she wasn’t bored with so little to do. She’d almost laughed aloud. So little to do? With another deadline hanging over her head? If only she could have told her sister-in-law about her writing. But she couldn’t. The only way to make certain that the true identity of D. B. Morgan remained a secret was to be the only person who knew the truth. Someday, perhaps, she would tell others. But not yet.

  She couldn’t imagine how Morgan wo
uld react if he learned she’d authored a series of dime novels filled with buffalo, horses, trappers, cattle rustlers, mining disasters, wild Indians, gunfight-ers, and a hanging judge. But she was quite certain he wouldn’t think it a proper occupation for his sister. She’d been groomed for a much different life. There were certain things expected of a well-educated, unmarried young woman of large fortune. Writing dime novels wasn’t among them. And even if her brother reacted without censure, the news would cause a scandal among her friends and acquaintances in the East.

  She glanced around her cozy little home and knew many of those friends and acquaintances would be equally scandalized by her living conditions, irrespective of the work she did there. As it was, none of them understood why she chose to remain in this small town in the mountains of Idaho, and no matter how many times she tried to explain how happy she was in her new life, they refused to believe it.

  It didn’t take Joshua long on his first morning at the Daily Herald to discover that Nathan Patterson had been a fine journalist but not the most organized of businessmen. Newspapers and file folders covered desktops and cabinets. More of the same were stacked on the floor. And while the printing press and other equipment were in good shape, the record keeping was almost nonexistent.

  Joshua’s first recommendation to Christina Patterson had to be that she change the newspaper from a daily—common in larger cities but difficult to maintain in any small town—to a triweekly. With the world at war, there was plenty of news for the front page seven days a week, but there wasn’t a lot of local news or enough advertising to fill up the remaining pages. It wasn’t financially responsible to continue as a daily. He didn’t know how Nathan had kept the paper afloat before this.

  His second recommendation would be that she retain the services of Grant Henley, the Herald’s press operator whom Joshua had met yesterday. In their brief conversation, he’d learned that Grant—a friendly fellow in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a crooked grin—had a wealth of experience in typesetting and printing-press operation. He was obviously worth the wage he received, even with only three editions a week instead of seven.