Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs]

by A Matter of Character

  Oh, my. Writing for the newspaper had seemed an excellent idea when it first came to her. Would it turn into a disaster instead?

  She left the kitchen and went to her office. The typewriter awaited her, a clean sheet of paper rolled into the platen. With practice each day, she was getting the hang of typing. She did wonder why the keys weren’t lined up alphabetically. Wouldn’t that have made more sense?

  She sank onto her desk chair, shoving her loose flowing hair behind her shoulders. She would practice a little while before changing out of her dressing gown. Perhaps she might even manage to write a page or two about Bill McFarland’s latest adventure, just to prove it was, indeed, easier than coming up with an idea for her second column.

  Dry Creek was a town as uninviting as its name. The buildings lining Main Street were weather beaten and sun-bleached, and any small breeze sent dust devils whirling every which way.

  It was said only the most desperate characters lived in Dry Creek, a wide patch in the road halfway between Boise City and the gold towns of the Boise Basin. Even government officials gave the town a wide berth, believing it was better to let the ruffians kill each other than to risk their own lives enforcing the law.

  But Bill McFarland wasn’t the kind of man who backed away from danger. He wasn’t about to start backing down on this day…

  A knock on Daphne’s front door drew her out of her fictional world. Who on earth would come calling so early in the morning? Except it wasn’t early. When she looked at the clock on her desk, she discovered it was almost noon. And there she sat in her dressing gown, the floor of her office littered with crumpled pages.

  The knock sounded again. It seemed her visitor wasn’t going away. Probably Edna Updike wanting to borrow a cup of flour or sugar. Or perhaps her neighbor wanted to give Daphne a scolding because of her column in the newspaper. Daphne remembered how disapproving Mrs. Updike had been when Gwen ran for public office. What a fussbudget!

  “Oh, my.” She released a sigh. “And I was doing so well.”

  She rose from the chair, once again shoving her hair over her shoulder. Whatever it was Mrs. Updike wanted, Daphne would not let her come inside. She would make certain her neighbor’s visit was brief. Then she would change into a day dress and return to writing while her muse was cooperating.

  She pasted on a smile as she opened the door. It vanished in an instant. Her caller wasn’t Edna Updike. Joshua Crawford stood on her front porch, his hand raised to rap once more upon her door.

  “Mr. Crawford.” Her fingers fluttered to the neck of her dressing gown. She was perfectly covered, of course. As modestly and adequately as any of her day dresses. Still…

  “Miss McKinley.” He bent the brim of his hat in greeting. “Might I speak with you for a moment?”

  Looking at Daphne, her thick mass of curly black hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back—appearing much as he’d imagined it would—Joshua almost forgot what had brought him to her door.

  “I…I’m not prepared for company.” Color rose in her cheeks as she fingered the collar of her pale yellow dressing gown.

  He hunched his shoulders inside his coat. “I won’t take up much of your time.”

  “Well…” She reached out and pushed on the screen door. “Come inside. We’re letting the heat out.”

  “Thanks.” As he moved by her, he caught the faint scent of her cologne. It was different from the last time he’d noticed her fragrance. Honeysuckle, if he wasn’t mistaken, and he wasn’t. It was his mother’s favorite.

  The door closed behind him.

  “I would offer you a cup of coffee, Mr. Crawford, but I’m afraid it will be bitter. It’s been on the stove for several hours. Still I—”

  He removed his hat as he turned to face her again. “That’s kind, but I promised I wouldn’t keep you.”

  Yesterday he’d wondered what it would be like to kiss Daphne. Later, he’d written to Mary Theresa, partly because of the need to remind himself that he shouldn’t think about kissing another woman. But how could he help it, seeing her as she was now?

  He swallowed. “Miss McKinley, I’m here—” His voice cracked, like a nervous schoolboy. He cleared his throat. “I’m here about D. B. Morgan.”

  She moved away from him, walking from the small living room into the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?”

  “I’m sure.” He shouldn’t have come. It was a crazy notion that had brought him here today. And yet, he had to try. If there was any possibility she could help him…“Miss McKinley, I couldn’t help noticing your collection of novels when I was here the other day.”

  She arched an eyebrow and tipped her head slightly to one side. The look in her eyes bade him continue.

  “The McFarland Chronicles, in particular.”

  The blush that had colored her cheeks moments before drained away. “What about them?”

  So he was right. The books he’d seen were not only dime novels, but they were those particular dime novels, the ones that had caused him so much anger and grief. “You must know they were written by D. B. Morgan.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t say anything when you heard me ask others about the author.” He walked forward, stopping when he reached the table.

  “No, I didn’t say anything.”

  “Why not? You knew I wanted to find him.”

  She drew a deep breath and released it, her chest rising and falling with it. “I said nothing because there is nothing I can tell you.”

  “Perhaps you don’t want others to know you read those kind of books. There isn’t much to admire about them, that’s for certain.”

  If she’d looked pale and uncertain moments before, now she looked perturbed. “I’m afraid I disagree, Mr. Crawford. I find a great deal to enjoy about The McFarland Chronicles. They’re entertaining and filled with history of the Old West.”

  “They are ridiculous and filled with inaccuracies.”

  “Mr. Crawford, you may be a fine newspaper editor, but you obviously know little about fiction or the people who love to read it.”

  His own temper was on the rise. “I know Mr. Morgan has no regard for facts, no respect for the truth. He’s ruined the good name of a good man in his novels.”

  “What good man?”

  “My grandfather!”

  Silence enveloped the kitchen.

  Breathing hard, Joshua turned away. Why take out his frustration on Miss McKinley? She had a right to read what she wanted, and it wasn’t her fault what the author had written. Practice patience, he reminded himself. Be like Grandfather. But his annoyance remained. Daphne was the closest thing he had to a lead, and he was certain she knew more than she was saying.

  “I don’t understand what your grandfather has to do with The McFarland Chronicles.”

  Joshua faced her again. “My grandfather’s name was Richard Terrell, and when he was a young man living out West, he was sometimes called Rawhide Rick. He lived in Bethlehem Springs before moving to St. Louis, where he married and raised his daughter. My mother.”

  “Oh, dear,” she whispered, her hand covering her mouth.

  “I didn’t learn about the nickname until after his death, so I don’t know how he came to be called by it. But I do know my grandfather was not the scurrilous villain portrayed in Mr. Morgan’s novels.”

  “They are novels, Mr. Crawford. Just fiction.”

  “Should that make the insult less?”

  “Perhaps the use of his name is a coincidence?”

  Joshua shook his head. “If it was only my grandfather’s real name or the nickname, perhaps. But both? No, it’s no coincidence. I don’t know why the writer wants to twist the truth about my grandfather in his novels, but I’m certain it’s intentional.”

  “Is that the reason you want to meet D. B. Morgan?”

  “Yes.”

  She was silent for a long while before saying, “You must have loved your grandfather a great deal.” Her expres
sion seemed kind, sympathetic, compassionate.

  “There was a great deal about him to love. He was a good man, respected by everyone who knew him.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  Again she was silent for a long moment before speaking, softly this time. “How can the words in a novel hurt him after so many years?”

  His mother had asked him the same question when he’d announced his plans to find and confront D. B. Morgan. “They can’t hurt him,” he answered now, just as he had then. “But I don’t want anyone believing that disreputable character was anything like the real Richard Terrell. I can’t let the lies stand unchallenged. I owe my grandfather too much not to fight for his good name.”

  Daphne continued to look at him but didn’t say anything more. Perhaps there was nothing more she could say. Perhaps she really didn’t know anything about the author.

  Joshua slid his fingers around his hat brim. One circle. Two circles. Finally, he set the hat on his head. He was wasting his time. “Thank you, Miss McKinley I won’t trouble you any longer.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door, where he let himself out.

  As the door closed behind Joshua, Daphne sat on the nearest chair and drew a deep breath into her lungs. What a terrible predicament. She had included Rawhide Rick in her books for historical accuracy. In hindsight, perhaps that hadn’t been the best choice. But she hadn’t written anything about him that wasn’t true—or at least that she hadn’t believed was true.

  Oh, dear. What if Griff’s stories of early Idaho and Bethlehem Springs weren’t true at all?

  She covered her face with her hands.

  Joshua Crawford had come all this way because he felt his grandfather’s good name had been besmirched in the novels of D. B. Morgan. Her novels. She hadn’t actually lied when she said there was nothing she could tell him. She wasn’t ready to reveal that she was D. B. Morgan. Her work had been a secret from the start. How could she tell him and not tell everyone else? Or at least tell her family and closest friends.

  “Father in heaven, whatever am I to do now?”

  Joshua’s frustration continued to build throughout the afternoon, and by the time he flipped the sign in the office window to Closed, frustration had turned to a simmering anger. Had he come to Idaho for nothing?

  “How can the words in a novel hurt him after so long a time?”

  It seemed he was the only person who understood the importance of setting the record straight. He’d loved his grandfather. He’d grown to admire him even more as he’d grown into adulthood. Joshua needed to honor his memory. If even one reader believed that the character in those books was a true representation of Richard Terrell, that was one too many.

  He pictured a smirk on Gregory Halifax’s face. One that plainly said Joshua was a complete failure. At the thought, his anger boiled over, and he slammed his fist into the door jamb. Pain shot up his arm and into his shoulder. He released a mild oath.

  “You all right, Mr. Crawford?”

  Joshua drew in a quick breath. He’d forgotten Grant Henley was still in the back room. “I’m fine,” he called, though he wasn’t. He’d taken the skin off his knuckles, and his head had begun to pound. Not to mention the disgust he felt over losing his temper once again.

  Would he never learn?

  Grant appeared in the doorway. “Calling it a night?”

  “Yes. And you should too.”

  “I won’t be far behind you. Got to finish a few repairs to the old girl.” Old girl. That’s what Grant called the press.

  Joshua nodded as he slipped his arms into his coat. “All right, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  A few moments later, he stopped at the base of the stairs that led to his apartment. He was hungry, but he didn’t feel like cooking for himself. The quiet of the apartment would allow him too much time to consider the different ways he’d failed, and he might find himself punching another door jamb because of it.

  He turned away from the stairs and walked to the South Fork. Inside the restaurant, he was hailed by several other diners.

  “Enjoyed your editorial today, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Heard you went to the Methodist Church yesterday. Hope you’ll be back to All Saints next Sunday.”

  “Mr. Crawford, you’re doing a fine job. Mrs. Patterson’s lucky to have you.”

  Funny, wasn’t it? Less than two weeks ago, he’d come into this restaurant a stranger. Now he was treated as if he were one of them. To his surprise, he felt the same. He was even able to respond to each one of them by name. Neighbor to neighbor.

  Not that he truly belonged in Bethlehem Springs. His would be a short stay.

  NINE

  On Thursday, with the snow gone from the roads, Daphne joined her brother, sister-in-law, and their children for the family’s weekly visit to the Arlington ranch. By the time they arrived, everyone’s cheeks and noses were rosy from the cold and no one felt like dawdling outdoors.

  “We liked your column in Monday’s paper,” Cleo said after giving Daphne a warm embrace. “I reckon most everybody’d have to agree with you too. Gwennie was the best mayor Bethlehem Springs ever had and ever will have.”

  Gwen lowered Ellie into Griff’s arms before glancing over her shoulder. “I’m certain Edna Updike doesn’t agree.” Her gaze met with Daphne’s. “Has she said anything to you about what you wrote?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Sure as shootin’, she will.” Cleo chuckled. “Mrs. Updike’s never been one to hesitate expressing her opinion to anybody who’ll listen.”

  “No, indeed,” Gwen agreed, her laughter joining her sister’s.

  Gwen and Cleo drifted into the living room, their conversation switching to the children, while Woody challenged Morgan to a game of chess in the sitting room.

  Before Griff could follow the men, Daphne stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Could we talk? Privately.”

  “Of course.” A frown wrinkled his brow. “Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s just, I have some questions and you’re the only one I know who might be able to answer them.”

  With his free arm, he motioned toward the dining room. Daphne led the way and took a seat on the first chair. Griff settled into the one at the head of the table. Although his gaze revealed his curiosity, he waited patiently for her to continue.

  If only she knew what to say, how much to say.

  At last she drew a deep breath and began. “You know that Mr. Crawford is interested in finding D. B. Morgan.”

  Griff nodded.

  “Well, the reason is because…the author has included a character called Rawhide Rick in his—” She almost choked on the masculine pronoun. “—books. As it turns out, Joshua Crawford is a descendent of the real Richard Terrell.”

  Griff’s eyes widened. “You don’t say.”

  Daphne nodded. “His grandson.”

  “Well, isn’t that something.”

  “Mr. Crawford objects to the way his grandfather is portrayed in the D. B. Morgan books. But I—” She cleared her throat. “—But I’m familiar with the books in question, and nothing in them appears to contradict the stories you’ve told me about the man. The ones about the early days in Idaho. Do you…do you think the stories you heard were true?”

  Griff was nobody’s fool, and there was something about the way he looked at Daphne that made her fear he’d seen through the little half-truths she’d told. But if he had, he didn’t tell her so. “I haven’t read the books, so can’t say for sure if what was written is accurate. But I can vouch for the things I told you. The men who shared those stories with me were straight shooters. Honest men. They aren’t the kind to tell tall tales. They knew Rawhide Rick. Knew him well, and I’d take whatever they told me as gospel.”

  “Too bad Mr. Crawford can’t speak to them,” Daphne responded on a sigh.

  Ellie whimpered, and Griff shifted the baby from the crook of his arm to
his shoulder where he began to pat her gently on the back. “No reason he couldn’t if he cared to take a little trip. The Coughlin brothers are both alive and kicking. They’re over in Stone Creek. We keep in touch every now and again. I’ll be glad to tell Mr. Crawford how to find them if he wants the information.”

  “I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

  Ellie began to cry in earnest.

  “I believe she wants her mother.” Griff rose to his feet. As he headed for the living room, he added, “Before you leave today, I’ll write down the information and you can give it to Mr. Crawford.”

  Daphne stood, but instead of following Griff, she moved to the dining room window and stared outside. A bright sun beamed down from a cloudless sky, promising warmth without giving any. The horses in the corrals already sported thicker coats. Soon winter would arrive in earnest. But it wasn’t the weather or the animals that occupied Daphne’s thoughts.

  It was knowing she would have to tell Morgan about her writing.

  Worse, she would have to tell Joshua Crawford that she was D. B. Morgan.

  Seated at his desk, Joshua took a bite of the sandwich he’d made for himself while his eyes scanned the newspaper open before him. He’d decided to read through a few random issues every day to make himself more familiar with the town and its citizens. This one was from more than three years ago, June 1915. On page four, there was a society piece about Daphne McKinley, newly arrived from the East on a visit to her brother.

  Daphne Bernadette McKinley arrived in Bethlehem Springs on Friday last for a visit with her brother, Morgan Alistair McKinley. The daughter of Alistair and Danielle McKinley, deceased, Miss McKinley is a graduate of…

  Daphne had been on his mind a lot this week. Mostly he remembered the last time he’d been with her and wondered why he’d made such a fool of himself over those books on her shelf. It was her business what she liked to read. Who was he to act as judge and jury? And liking to read dime novels didn’t make her responsible for what was in them.

  He owed her an apology.