“It must be a relief to you, having Mr. Crawford here to manage the Herald. How fortuitous that Mr. Patterson already offered him a position before—” She regretted the words before they were out of her mouth. “—Before he fell ill.”
The ever-present sadness in Christina’s eyes deepened, and sorrow tugged at the corners of her mouth. Daphne wished she could offer words that would bring comfort to the young widow. But what help were words at such a time? All that came to mind were platitudes, and Daphne knew from personal experience how unwelcome trite phrases were when one was in mourning. She reached out and briefly touched the back of Christina’s right hand. With her eyes she tried to convey her sympathy and understanding.
Christina nodded, as if hearing what had gone unspoken.
Softly, Daphne said, “Please have Mr. Crawford call me if the piece isn’t to his liking.”
“I will.”
Without another word, Daphne turned and left the newspaper office.
It was a crisp, cool day, the golden sun overhead failing to provide much warmth. But at least the wind had died down, and the threat of snow had yet to be fulfilled. It would happen soon enough.
On her way home, Daphne stopped at the mercantile. She needed flour and salt, and hopefully the shipment of apples Bert Humphrey was expecting would have arrived by now. Although she wasn’t much of a cook, she was in the mood to bake an apple cobbler.
“Miss McKinley!” Bert said when he saw her. “That Royal Typewriter you ordered arrived today.”
The apples, flour, and salt were forgotten in an instant. “So soon? I thought it would take several weeks.”
“Surprised me too. Came in on this morning’s train. I was gonna send Owen Goldsmith down with it as soon as he gets out of school.” Bert leaned his beefy forearms on the counter. “Mind tellin’ me what you’re gonna use it for? Makes sense to have those machines over at the municipal building, I guess, and for lawyers and such, but I’ve never known anybody to buy one just to have around the house.”
“I’m writing a weekly column for the newspaper, Mr. Humphrey. I thought it would be good for me to learn to use a typing machine.”
The grocer shook his head as he straightened and took a step back. “Waste of money, far as I can see.”
“Not at all, sir,” came a male voice from behind Daphne.
Her heart skipped a beat as she turned to look at Joshua Crawford—who stood much too close for her comfort. Would he be able to look her in the eyes and guess that she was D. B. Morgan?
“Every writer will one day use typing machines,” Joshua continued with a smile and a nod in her direction. Then he looked at Bert. “Did you know, Mr. Humphrey, that Mark Twain wrote The Adventures of Tom Sawyer on a typewriter?”
“Do tell.”
“Yes. It’s a fact.”
“Miss McKinley’s not writin’ a book.”
Daphne felt color rise in her cheeks. Of all things for Bert Humphrey to say. He couldn’t be more wrong. Hoping to hide the sheepish blush from Joshua, she turned to face the grocer again. “I’ll await the typewriter’s delivery at home. Thank you for seeing to it.”
“No need to wait for it to be delivered, Miss McKinley,” Joshua said. “Please allow me to carry it for you.”
Her cheeks burned even hotter. She looked down at her hands, her fingers tapping restlessly on the counter. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“I assure you, it won’t put me out in the least. After all, you were kind enough to drive me to your brother’s house the other night. This would only be returning the favor.”
What could she do but accept? To keep refusing would only bring more attention that she didn’t want, both from Joshua and from Bert. She took a deep breath, composed her expression, and turned around. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Crawford. If you’re sure it won’t be an imposition.”
Joshua smiled. “Quite sure.”
“The crate’s in the back,” Bert said. “I’ll bring it right out.”
With the grocer gone, silence settled over the storeroom. Joshua didn’t mind the silence. Nor did he mind being alone with Daphne. It gave him a few moments to study her. That she was nervous was unmistakable. What he didn’t know was why. Where were her usual self-confidence and that regal carriage? Did he make her nervous?
The idea that he might be the cause of her display of nerves brought him unexpected satisfaction. Because if he were the cause of those nerves, there was only one reasonable explanation—she was attracted to him. What a perfectly fine state of affairs. Hadn’t he hoped to learn more about her, to spend more time in her company? How much easier that would be if she hoped for the same.
“Here you go.” Bert reappeared from the storeroom carrying a good-sized crate in his arms. He set it on the counter, then patted the top of it with his left hand as he looked at Joshua. “Hope you appreciate her getting a machine like that for writing her columns.”
“I assure you, I do appreciate it. I’ve used a Royal Typewriter for some time and highly recommend it.” He lifted the crate off the counter. “Shall we go, Miss McKinley?”
“Yes,” she answered as she moved toward the door. “Good day, Mr. Humphrey. Thank you again.”
Joshua followed, watching her departure over the top of the crate. The now familiar posture was there—head high, shoulders squared, pint sized but regal. And he saw something he hadn’t noticed in their previous encounters—a rather mesmerizing feminine sway of her hips. What a pleasant observation.
Daphne opened the door and stepped out of his way so he could exit first. Since he couldn’t see around the crate, he felt for the step down to the sidewalk with his foot. Her attraction to him—if that’s what it was—wouldn’t last long if he fell flat on his face in front of her and damaged her new typewriter in the bargain.
“Which way?” he asked.
“We’ll turn right on Wallula. My house is almost at the end of the street.”
Facing west, he waited on the sidewalk until she appeared at his side, then they walked together, Joshua shortening his stride to accommodate hers.
After a brief silence, he said, “I trust you’re feeling better.”
“Feeling better? Oh, the other night. Yes, I am. It was nothing, really. But thank you for asking.”
Joshua wished he weren’t carrying the awkward container. He would have liked to see her from a better angle than the one afforded him now.
“By the way, I’ve written my first column. I left it with Mrs. Patterson a short while ago.” She glanced over at him, the color in her cheeks high once again. “I hope you’ll approve of it, Mr. Crawford.”
He found himself disappointed. It would seem Daphne’s case of nerves had everything to do with pleasing her new editor and nothing to do with the man himself. But wasn’t that just as well? A romantic entanglement wouldn’t be desirable for either of them. His stay in Bethlehem Springs was temporary and—God willing—would be of brief duration.
“Did you know my sister-in-law used to write for the Daily Herald?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I read a few of her columns last week while I was acquainting myself with the paper. Although I didn’t know at the time that Guinevere Arlington was the present Mrs. Morgan McKinley.”
“Here,” she said, pointing the way. “We need to cross the street. That’s my home over there.”
The house was a single-story bungalow made of red brick, surrounded by trees, shrubs and flower bushes. There was a broad front porch with a swing and several wooden chairs off to the right side. It didn’t look at all like the home of an heiress. He’d expected something more along the line of her brother’s house. It made him wonder again why Daphne had chosen to settle in a small town in the mountains of Idaho when she could have lived anywhere in the world. Was it because, as she’d stated, she’d fallen in love with the town and its people? Or was there another reason?
“Careful of the steps.” She moved ahead to open the front door for him. “Yo
u can set down the crate anywhere. Right there on the floor will be fine.”
“Why don’t I take it into the room where you intend to use it?”
“Oh, but I—”
“I’ve carried it this far. A few more steps won’t matter.”
“Very well.”
She led the way to one of the bedrooms. Only it wasn’t a bedroom. It was an office with several bookcases, the shelves lined with books. Dozens upon dozens of books. Thin ones, thick ones, and everything in between. A writing desk stood in the center of the room, a neat stack of paper on the left side, a collection of pens and pencils on the right side. It seemed she was more than a little serious about writing, and he doubted the column that awaited him back at the office was her first attempt.
He stopped, leaned down, and set the crate on the floor while Daphne moved to stand with her back to the window, her hands resting on top of the bookcase that sat beneath the sill.
“Would you like me to open the crate for you?” he asked as he straightened.
“Heavens, no. I’ve imposed upon you enough already.”
“Not at all.” He stepped over to one of the taller bookcases, and his gaze scanned the titles at eye level. It was an eclectic collection—biographies, histories, scientific studies, poetry, novels, short story collections. Old books. New books. Authors like Mark Twain, Edith Wharton, Willa Cather, Jack London, Jane Austen, Gertrude Stein, O. Henry, and Robert Frost. “Have you read many of these?”
“Most. I’ll read them all eventually. I like to learn.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Your interests are rather varied.”
“For a woman?”
“I didn’t say that.”
She gave him a tight smile. “Maybe not, but you thought it.”
He wanted to deny the accusation.
“You’d be surprised by the things that interest me, Mr. Crawford.”
“Perhaps you’ll share some of them with me while I’m in Bethlehem Springs.”
Her dark eyebrows arched. “You make it sound as if that won’t be for long.”
“One can’t predict the future, Miss McKinley.”
“No, one can’t.”
She was more than just another pretty face, more than a woman of wealth and privilege. There was intelligence behind those chocolate-colored eyes of hers, and he realized that he really would like to learn about her interests.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to open that for you?” He glanced down at the crate as he spoke.
“Quite sure.” She stepped toward him. “Thank you for carrying it home for me. I’m obliged to you.”
As he lifted his gaze, he caught sight of a number of slight volumes on the lower shelf of the bookcase behind her. Unmistakably dime novels. It surprised him that she would have such poor reading material among the rest of her fine collection.
She shifted her position, and the books were once again hidden from view by her skirt.
Was it intentional, he wondered, as he met her gaze. Was she trying to hide those books from him? Perhaps she was embarrassed for him to know she read such disgraceful literature. As well she should be.
“I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Crawford. Don’t let me keep you any longer.”
No matter the reason for her earlier case of nerves—whether an attraction she felt toward him or because she wanted to impress her editor—she had apparently overcome it. He was being shown the door. Without question. He made his way to the front entrance. She followed right behind.
As he opened the door, he bid her good day. “Do let me know how you fare in learning to use your new typewriter.” He pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the front porch. Then he turned to look at her again.
“Of course.” She smiled, but it was a fleeting, uncertain one. “And I look forward to learning your opinion of my first column. I do want to make a good impression on the newspaper’s readers.” After a quick nod, she all but closed the door in his face.
Joshua stood there, still holding the screen door open with his left hand while mulling over what had transpired, from the moment he’d run into Daphne in the mercantile until now. He wasn’t easily confused, but this particular woman baffled him. Did she like him or not? Did he like her or just find her curious?
With a shake of his head, he let the screen door fall closed, then turned and went down the porch steps. Better to drive thoughts of Miss McKinley from his mind. Better he concentrate on the matter that had brought him to Bethlehem Springs.
Strange that he had to keep reminding himself of that.
When he reached the corner of Wallula and Lincoln—and with that reminder upmost in his thoughts—he decided not to return to the newspaper immediately. Instead, he headed for Thurber’s Feed Store at the end of the block.
An earthy scent filled his nostrils when he entered the store a short while later. Unlike the general store that was crowded with items of all kinds, narrow aisles between fully stocked shelves, the feed store had a wide open feel to it. Bags of grain were stacked against the far wall. Another wall displayed harnesses and other tack for horses, including a couple of saddles.
“Howdy.” The man behind the counter wiped his hands on the green apron he wore over his shirt and trousers. “Can I help you find somethin’?”
Joshua introduced himself.
“You’re the newspaper fellow,” the man said before Joshua could add that detail. “Right nice to meet you. I’m Mark Thurber.” Thurber was tall and beanpole thin with orange-red hair on his head and a red-and-gray close-cropped beard. He moved from behind the counter, holding out his hand.
Joshua shook it. “I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Do my best.”
“I’m looking for someone who is supposed to live in or near Bethlehem Springs. His name is D. B. Morgan.”
Mark Thurber rubbed his chin between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. “Hmm. Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of a Mr. Morgan anywhere hereabouts. But I’ll tell you what. If’n anybody’d know, it’s Griff Arlington. He’s lived in these mountains more’n thirty years now and knows just about everybody, young and old.”
“And where might I find Mr. Arlington?” The name sounded familiar. He was sure he’d run across it before. In the newspaper. Arlington…Arlington…Gwen Arlington. Perhaps Griff was her brother. No, not if he’d lived here for more than thirty years. More than likely her father or grandfather or maybe an uncle.
“Griff’s got a ranch about ten miles or so east of town.”
Ten miles. That wasn’t walking distance. He would have to rent a horse at the livery. He mentally counted the money that needed to last until he drew his first salary from the Herald. It wouldn’t stretch very far.
“I could draw you a map,” Thurber offered.
“Thank you. I’d greatly appreciate it.”
“’Course, it’d save you riding out there if you just tried to meet up with him day after tomorrow. There’s not much short of a blizzard that keeps him and his family from bein’ at church on Sundays.” Thurber jerked his head to the right. “He goes to the Methodist Church across the way there, if’n that’s what you choose to do. Service starts at ten in the mornin’.”
Relief washed through him. He wouldn’t need to rent a horse after all. “Thank you again, Mr. Thurber. I’ll follow your suggestion.” Joshua touched the brim of his hat. “Good day to you.”
Perhaps on Sunday he would have the answers he sought.
With her chair facing the bookshelf beneath her office window, Daphne stared at the tangerine-colored spines of The McFarland Chronicles. Had Joshua seen them? Had he been able to read the titles? Would he wonder why she hadn’t mentioned that she’d read D. B. Morgan’s work? Would he be intrepid enough to search until he discovered the truth? And worse still, what would he think of her should that happen?
Pangs of conscience tightened her chest again. But why should she feel guilty? She wasn’t the first female author to write under a m
ale pseudonym, nor would she be the last. The main reason she used one was the same as it had been for others of her sex: because readers wouldn’t accept a western adventure novel from a Daphne McKinley the way they did from a D. B. Morgan.
She reached for one of her novels and stared at the cover. The Predicament of Dorothy Milford. Her fourth novel and one of her favorites. The illustration showed Bill McFarland protecting the fair heroine while punching out Rawhide Rick. Oh, what wonderful exploits Bill and Dorothy experienced in that book. Daphne had been totally enthralled with her characters, and the story had seemed to write itself. Perhaps she should have let the two of them get married and settle down. Only that would have put an end to the Chronicles. After all, what adventures awaited a couple after wedlock?
The question brought her up short. Was that truly how she viewed marriage?
She considered her closest friends, Gwen and Cleo. Both of them were independent, strong-minded women who had been content while single. Content, that is, until they’d met the men they would marry. Falling in love had changed everything for them. And she was certain, were she to suggest to them that their lives lacked excitement, they would heartily disagree.
With a shake of her head, she slipped the book into its place on the shelf before spinning the chair toward her desk. The new typewriter sat directly in front of her. With her index fingers, she pressed down on a few keys, one at a time, watching as they left black letters on the paper rolled into the platen.
Better she get her thoughts back into her next book than to muse about marriage, pseudonyms…or Joshua Crawford.
SEVEN
Daphne rose along with the rest of the congregation of All Saints Presbyterian and drew her first decent breath since entering the sanctuary ten minutes earlier. Joshua hadn’t come to church this morning, and she was glad of it. Being around him made her nervous, made her afraid that something she might say or do would give away her secret. Oh, how she wished he’d never come to Bethlehem Springs.
She glanced to her right where Morgan stood, holding Andy against his hip. On the other side of her brother were Gwen and the baby. Ellie slept soundly in her mother’s arms, unaware of the loud organ music or the voices raised in a song of praise.
Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Page 6
