Would it embarrass Morgan or Gwen should her secret be revealed? Perhaps not. She might even discover they would support her writing endeavors. Was she the one who was embarrassed by the stories she wrote?
She mulled the question around in her mind until she was certain of the answer. No. She wasn’t embarrassed. Perhaps at times her writing was a little overwrought, but wasn’t that what readers wanted? Was it awful to provide a few hours of escape to those who read her books?
Morgan closed the hymnal as the last strains of music lifted toward the rafters of the church, and Daphne realized she hadn’t sung a single word. Shame on her. She should be thinking about God, not about her books. Here of all places her thoughts should be on those things above.
She bowed her head as Reverend Rawlings began his opening prayer. Lord, help me to do what’s right in your eyes.
Joshua had wondered how he would discreetly find Griff Arlington among the other worshipers who attended the Bethlehem Springs Methodist Church, but he needn’t have worried. Mark Thurber, the fellow from the feed store, made certain the two men were introduced as soon as the service was over.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crawford. My son-in-law told me the two of you had met. We’re all glad you’re here and that we have a newspaper again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And this here,” Thurber continued after Joshua and Griff shook hands, “is Griff’s daughter, Cleo Statham, and her husband, Sherwood. But everybody calls him Woody.”
“How do you do?” Joshua said with a nod to Cleo and another handshake for her husband.
Thurber spoke again. “Griff, Mr. Crawford’s lookin’ for somebody name of Morgan. D. B. Morgan. He’s supposed to live around these parts. You ever heard of him?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
Anticipating that Griff might ask why he wanted to find Mr. Morgan, Joshua said, “He’s a writer of novels. I’m familiar with his books and was hoping I might speak with him about them.”
Griff glanced at his daughter—Joshua noted that Cleo looked little like her sister, Gwen McKinley—and said, “Do you know anyone by that name?”
She answered with a slow shake of her head.
Thurber patted Joshua on the shoulder. “If’n Griff’s never heard of your Mr. Morgan, then you can bet your bottom dollar that he just don’t live around here and never did. Whoever said he did’s got it wrong, for sure.”
“It would seem so.” Joshua let his gaze move to each person in the nearby semicircle. “I thank you all for your help.”
He tried to sound as if failing to discover Mr. Morgan’s whereabouts meant little to him, but inside frustration began to build. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides. He had to find the man. If he failed, there would be no righting of wrongs, there would be no apologies from Langston Lee or Gregory Halifax, no restoration of the job he’d lost.
Griff’s voice broke into Joshua’s thoughts. “If you don’t have other plans, Mr. Crawford, please join me and my family for Sunday dinner. A man shouldn’t have to eat alone on the Lord’s Day, not when he’s got Christian brothers and sisters to make him welcome at their table.”
“That’s a kind invitation,” Joshua answered.
He might as well dine with them. It would be a long, quiet afternoon in his apartment on his own. Too much empty time to think about his failure to find D. B. Morgan. Besides, it might be interesting to see the cattle ranch and learn some of its history. Maybe he would discover something worthwhile to write about.
“Good.” Griff’s smile carved deep creases in an already craggy face. “Then come along. You can ride to the house with us in our buggy. Gwen and Morgan’s cook hates it when we’re late.”
Gwen and Morgan? But he’d thought—
“Don’t concern yourself, Mr. Crawford,” Woody Statham said in a low voice, his accent identifying his British roots. “You aren’t the first stranger Griff has invited to dinner after Sunday services. However, I married the last Arlington daughter. Perhaps you’ll take an interest in Daphne McKinley. She’ll make some lucky man a fine wife.”
Where on earth did Woody Statham get the idea Joshua was in the market for a wife?
Woody laughed and gave Joshua a pat on the back. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Crawford. I’ve become a romantic since meeting my Cleo. You will see what I mean when you get to know her.”
He was beginning to regret accepting Griff’s invitation. A quiet afternoon in his apartment above the newspaper office might have been preferable after all.
Daphne was standing in the parlor, rocking a dosing Ellie in her arms, when the front door of the McKinley home opened and Griff walked in, followed soon after by Cleo, Woody…and Joshua Crawford.
The breath caught in her throat. What was he doing there? Gwen hadn’t said anything about Joshua joining the family for Sunday dinner. Hospitality was one thing. But to invite him to eat with them twice in the span of four days? Well, it was just…just…
“Of course not.” Morgan’s voice carried into the parlor. “We’re glad you’ve joined us.”
Daphne turned, walked to the far end of the parlor, and stopped at the large window that overlooked Bethlehem Springs. As she stared down at the town, snowflakes began to fall, at first so few and so fine she wondered if she imagined them.
Cleo appeared at Daphne’s right shoulder. “I told Dad we’d get snow for sure today, and there it comes. Woody thought it would come last week, but I told him he was wrong.” She reached over to stroke the top of Ellie’s head. “I see you’ve got our little angel. Doesn’t she look pretty in her Sunday dress?”
“Mmm. Very pretty.” Daphne sent a quick glance over her shoulder, then looked out the window again. “I didn’t know Mr. Crawford was joining us today.”
Cleo laughed softly. “Neither did he. He was at our church service, and Dad invited him to come eat with us.”
Daphne couldn’t help wondering if she was the reason he’d chosen to attend the Methodist Church over All Saints Presbyterian that morning. But why? He had no reason to avoid her. It was she who had something to hide, she who had a secret, she who didn’t want to be in his company for fear he would find her out.
“Do you mind if I take Ellie?” Cleo held out her arms, anticipating Daphne’s compliance.
“Of course I mind. I always hate to give her up when she’s sleeping. Why don’t you ask to hold her when she’s fussy?” She smiled to let her friend know she was teasing.
It was no secret that Cleo longed for a baby of her own. After she’d married Woody in the summer of 1916, she’d spoken openly about wanting to begin a family right away. But as the months passed without any sign of pregnancy, she’d said less and less to others. Now she spoke of it to no one. Only she couldn’t hide her desire when around her niece and nephew. It was there in her eyes for all to see, and seeing it made Daphne’s heart ache for her friend.
Tenderly, she placed the baby in Cleo’s arms. As she took a step back, she saw Woody’s approach. She thought it best to give them some privacy, and so she left them and joined the rest of the family and their guest, who were seated near the fireplace.
Joshua stood. “Good day, Miss McKinley.”
“Mr. Crawford.”
“Have you mastered the typewriter since I saw you last?” There was a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth and a sparkle of jest in his eyes.
She felt herself relax a little at his teasing. “I believe it will take me more than two days to master it, but I’m learning.”
He motioned to the overstuffed chair where he’d been seated. “Please, take mine.”
“That’s not necessary. I—”
“Please.” He smiled—a smile that was almost as remarkable as the blue of his eyes.
Confusion replaced her unsteady nerves as she sank onto the chair, suddenly helpless to do anything other than comply.
Joshua walked across the room to retrieve one of the straight-backed chairs
set against the wall near the entrance. As he carried it toward his host and the others, his gaze returned to Daphne and his mind replayed Woody’s earlier comment: “Perhaps you’ll take an interest in Daphne McKinley. She’ll make some lucky man a fine wife.”
There was no disputing that Miss McKinley was a beautiful girl. No, not a girl. She was, without question, a woman. And when he looked at her, it was easy for his mind to stray to places he didn’t want it to go. Like what that abundant mass of curly black hair would look like tumbling free down her back or spilling over a white pillowcase. Like how soft her mouth would feel against his if he kissed her.
He gave his thoughts a mental shake. The world would come to an end before he saw Daphne’s hair unbound. As for kissing her? More likely he would become the editor of the New York Times or the head of a leading publishing house before the end of the year.
Wealth and privilege set Daphne McKinley apart from ordinary folks, and Joshua was unquestionably ordinary. He came from common stock. His father had been a man of trade. One of his great-grandfathers had been a farmer. And Richard Terrell, despite growing long in years, had worked to provide for his widowed daughter and only grandson. Daphne lived alone and had no need of employment, no concerns about how she would put food on the table. She’d traveled all around the globe, according to newspaper reports, while Bethlehem Springs was the farthest Joshua had been from St. Louis in his entire life.
No, he might be welcome as a guest in her brother’s home, but there was a vast chasm that separated Joshua from Daphne. To think otherwise was to be a fool. And besides, he was all but engaged to someone else. All the more reason for him to bring such thoughts about Daphne McKinley to an end. Once and for all.
Sunday, 27 October, 1918
Dear Mary Theresa,
I write this letter, hoping that you have found it in your heart to forgive me for the things I said in the heat of the moment. I regret losing my temper with Mr. Halifax and that he and I came to blows. I regret that my fight with him caused me to lose my position. But above all, I regret that I took out my anger and frustration upon you. You didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of my ill humor. Please forgive me, Mary Theresa.
I arrived at my destination on the seventeenth of this month, only to learn that Mr. Patterson, the man who offered me employment as a reporter at the Daily Herald, had passed away. Fortunately, before his passing, he instructed his wife to offer me the position as managing editor of the paper. Since my funds were nearly depleted, I didn’t hesitate to accept, knowing full well that I will need to find my replacement before I can return to St. Louis. I was provided with living quarters above the newspaper office as part of my compensation, a circumstance for which I am grateful. It would have cost more if I had to hire a room in the boarding house for the duration of my stay.
I have been made to feel welcome by many. All are glad that their newspaper is available once again. Twice I’ve been invited to dine at the home of the town’s most influential (in my opinion) citizen, one Morgan McKinley. I have come to admire him as I’ve learned the reason he came to Idaho. Perhaps because he reminds me of Grandfather. Although his wealth far exceeds anything Grandfather had, his generous spirit seems to be quite genuine.
Unfortunately, I have been less than successful in my search to find D. B. Morgan. No one in Bethlehem Springs seems to know or have heard of the man. I wrote to my source at Shriver & Sons, hoping to obtain more information that will assist me in finding Mr. Morgan.
Bethlehem Springs is a sleepy little town, set right in the middle of tree-covered mountains. The terrain is very different from where you and I grew up. It’s more arid. Certainly there is nothing like the mighty Mississippi River flowing nearby. The elevation of the town is better than five thousand feet, almost three times the highest point in all of Missouri but under half that of the highest point in Idaho. The population of Bethlehem Springs is miniscule compared to St. Louis. I miss the hurry and bustle of our thriving city.
Tonight, with snow falling outside my apartment’s windows as it has done much of the day, I feel isolated from the rest of the world. However, I’ve begun to adjust to the tempo of the town, and my stay will be worth it once I find and confront Mr. Morgan.
Your grandfather has been much on my mind. How is he? I know you were afraid his last illness might be the influenza. Fear over the dreaded disease is everywhere these days. The conductor on the train told me that fewer people are traveling, and whenever he hears a passenger cough or sees one who looks ill, he wonders if he will soon join the thousands who have died from the Spanish flu. I admit, I’ve had similar thoughts. I learned from my employer, Mrs. Patterson, that there have been no outbreaks of the influenza in Bethlehem Springs. They are grateful, and so am I.
When you see my mother and her husband, please tell them I am well. I intend to write to Mother next, but she will be reassured if you convey the same message to her.
I remain affectionately,
Joshua
July 1, 1872
It’s a shame that I’m not more disciplined in writing down the record of my life, but for the present, my past doesn’t seem as important as my future. Our future.
I’m pleased to say that my new business ventures in St. Louis are thriving. Doing far better than I had reason to expect. But my involvement with them does keep me very busy during the day. When I return home in the evening, I much prefer spending the time with Annie than writing about days gone by.
My beloved wife has grown large with the child she carries. She frets about being fat, but I tell her daily how beautiful she is. It’s not a lie. She is beautiful, and the life inside of her is a miracle for which I will always be thankful to God. Annie is convinced the child will be a boy, but I secretly hope for a girl. One who will look exactly like her mother.
Looking back to those years I was in California and owned the Golden Nugget, I see nothing to recommend myself. I was dishonest and disreputable to the core. I put on airs of respectability, but it was an act. I considered the welfare of no one other than myself. If something would benefit me, I went after it. What I couldn’t buy, I took by force. I wasn’t above threats or blackmail. It’s a wonder I never killed anyone to advance my fortunes.
At least I don’t have murder on my conscience. Another circumstance for which I am grateful to God.
But death is not always the worst thing that can happen to a man. I destroyed many in other lasting ways. I took their money. I ruined their businesses. Sometimes I dallied with their wives just for the novelty of it.
I have no defense, no way to justify the man I was then. Sin ruled me to the core. Even now, so many years later, I have to battle against my old ways of doing things. I have to keep myself in check when making business decisions. Old habits die hard, and I find I must plead for God to break those patterns, those temptations. I beg Him to control every area of my life. Without Him, I am most surely lost.
I take comfort in the words that Paul wrote in Romans 7:
For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not. For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do. Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me. I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me. For I delight in the law of God after the inward man: But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord. So then with the mind I myself serve the law of God; but with the flesh the law of sin.
Indeed. Thank God. Jesus Christ is the One who shall deliver me from the body of this death. Amen.
EIGHT
Daphne found her column on page 2 of the Monday edition of the paper, upper right-hand side. And there was her byline—Daphne McKinley—beneath
the heading A Woman’s Words. A thrill of excitement shivered up her spine. Although she didn’t care much for the title Joshua Crawford had given her column—it seemed rather dull and ordinary to her—at least others would know she was the author of the piece that followed. No cloud of secrecy. No worry about being discovered. For better or worse, there was her name for all to see.
Her eyes scanned the column, which was about woman’s suffrage in America and in Idaho and how Bethlehem Springs should be proud that they’d elected a woman as their mayor three years earlier. As far as she could tell without comparing it word for word to her copy, Joshua had made only a few changes. She hoped that meant he was pleased with her effort. He hadn’t told her so, and until this moment she hadn’t known how much she desired his approval. He was, after all, a professional editor. He must love words as much as she did.
She folded back the paper so her column was on the top page, then folded the paper in half and placed it on the kitchen table. What should she write for next Monday’s column? Her debut piece had come to her in a flash. Writing about Gwen’s accomplishments as mayor hadn’t been difficult. But what next? A woman’s view of the war in Europe. The need for quarantine efforts in order to stop the spread of influenza around the globe. Or perhaps a piece about something closer to home, such as the effect of prohibition in Idaho.
Instinct told her Joshua wanted her columns to be more personal, less news and more opinion. Something softer, perhaps.
She released a sigh. Despite her many frustrations with her current novel—Was she ready to end the life of Rawhide Rick? Should Bill McFarland be allowed to fall in love and marry? Was it time to bring The McFarland Chronicles to an end?—she had to admit she found it easier to write fiction than opinion pieces. Could she come up with enough engrossing topics on a weekly basis?
Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Page 7
