Miss McKinley told this reporter that she is looking forward to learning more of the history of Idaho. “I am fascinated by the men and women who settled the West. How very courageous they were. What an exciting time that was in the history of our country.” She went on to say that…
Joshua’s eyes returned to the beginning of the piece.
Daphne Bernadette McKinley.
Morgan McKinley.
Daphne Bernadette.
D. B.
Morgan.
D. B. Morgan.
It couldn’t be. It was mere coincidence. If it was difficult to believe that a man like Morgan McKinley could author dime novels, it was impossible to believe it of his sister. Only, the more Joshua considered the possibility, the less improbable it seemed. If she liked to read them, why couldn’t she like to write them?
“I find a great deal to enjoy about The McFarland Chronicles. They’re entertaining and filled with history of the Old West.”
Were those the words of a fan of dime novels? Or were they the words of the writer of dime novels? Great Scot! It must be the latter. Daphne McKinley was D. B. Morgan. The name was a pseudonym, and to anyone with an ounce of deductive powers, a rather obvious one at that. He should have realized it long before this.
And to think she’d let him go on about the author, about the inaccuracies, about his grandfather, and she hadn’t confessed the truth. Did she believe wealth and privilege gave her a right to lie? Well, he meant to be the one to tell her it didn’t.
He spun his chair away from the desk and got to his feet. He would give that young woman a piece of his mind, and he wasn’t going to delay doing so a minute longer.
“Is something wrong?”
Daphne looked at her sister-in-law, seated beside her on the sofa. The men had gone outside after lunch, and Cleo had taken Andy upstairs to play while Ellie slept in a cradle in the living room.
Gwen continued. “You’ve seemed distracted all day.”
“Have I?”
“Mmm. Not to mention that frown you’re wearing.”
Daphne released a sigh. “There’s something troubling me. Something I need to tell Morgan.”
Gwen lifted an eyebrow.
“You, too, but I need to tell my brother first.”
“That sounds rather mysterious.”
Daphne offered a weak smile. “I know, but it can’t be helped.”
“Perhaps you should go talk to him now.”
“Now?”
“If it’s bothering you so much, yes. Delaying something you know must be done never seems to make things better.”
Ever since her conversation with Griff that morning, Daphne had played out a dozen different scenarios in her head, imagining the moment when she told Morgan about her writing. She’d envisioned him angry, amused, appalled, proud, disappointed, accepting. But the only way she would know for sure would be to tell him and see for herself.
“You’re right.” She rose from the sofa. “I’ll do it now.”
After putting on her coat, she went outside and walked across the yard to the barn, where she found Morgan and Griff standing with their arms resting on the top rail of a stall. Woody was inside the stall with a young horse, running his hands over the colt’s flank.
“He shows great promise,” Woody said. “Cleo prefers training the smaller horses that can make quick turns. This horse is built to fly. Look at those legs.”
“So have you convinced her to go with you to California?” Morgan asked.
“I do believe so. But we won’t make the final decision until spring.”
“Who’s going to California?” Daphne asked as she drew near the stall.
Morgan and Griff turned their heads to look at her.
Woody answered, “I am. And Cleo.”
Griff added, “They think they may have a horse worth racing.”
Daphne looked through the rails at the black colt inside. “He’s beautiful. How old is he?”
“Still a yearling.”
“Really? My goodness but he’s tall.”
“Indeed.” Woody beamed with pride, as if he were responsible for the horse’s height.
Morgan said, “I suppose it’s about time we left for home.”
Daphne gave a slight shrug.
“Then I’d best see what mischief I can get into with my grandson before his mother spirits him away.” Griff pushed off the stall rail and headed for the barn door.
“You’ll find him upstairs with Cleo,” Daphne called after him.
“Thanks.” He waved without looking behind him.
Daphne laid her hand on Morgan’s arm and said softly, “I’d like to speak with you before we go in.”
Woody must have heard her, for when she glanced at him, he nodded and followed his father-in-law from the barn.
Confession, the old saying went, was good for the soul. But Daphne had never confessed anything like this before.
Morgan leaned his back against the rails and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. Her brother was by nature an exceedingly patient man. Not that she’d known that fact three and a half years ago. She hadn’t known much at all about him until she’d come to live in Bethlehem Springs. They’d been separated by age and distance for much of their lives. Perhaps that’s why she was so nervous about this. She still didn’t know him well enough to predict his exact response.
“So what is it you need to talk about?” he asked after a lengthy silence.
She glanced toward the barn door, almost wishing they would be interrupted. They weren’t. With a sigh, she began. “Have you ever wondered how I spend the better part of my days?”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “No, Daphne, I must admit I haven’t given that much thought. I suppose with the usual feminine pursuits.”
“Not quite.”
His eyes widened in question.
“I write novels.”
“Novels?” He straightened away from the stall.
She couldn’t decide whether to laugh at the incredulous tone of his voice or to be insulted by it.
“But why, Daphne?”
“So others can read them, of course.”
“You mean your novels have been published?”
Insulted. Definitely insulted. “Yes. Ten of them so far.”
“Great Scot!” He shook his head. “How have you managed to keep it a secret? I would have thought people around here would—”
“I use a pen name.” She inhaled deeply. “D. B. Morgan.”
For a moment, he didn’t react. But the instant he put the name together with the inquiries of a certain newspaper editor, Daphne saw his expression change. She rushed to tell him the rest, that the books were adventure novels, that Joshua didn’t yet know she was D. B. Morgan, that Mr. Crawford was convinced her stories had damaged the name of his grandfather, and last but not least, that Griff had reassured her the information he’d given was true and accurate.
“I suppose I could have misunderstood something,” she finished, her words slowing at last, “but I don’s believe that’s she case.”
Her brother raked the fingers of one hand through his hair and once again said, “Great Scot,” this time in a whisper.
“I love writing, Morgan. I cannot imagine having all of these stories running around in my head and not being able to write them down to share with others. But I wouldn’t want to become an embarrassment to you or Gwen or the children. Really I wouldn’t. That’s why I used a pseudonym. That—and knowing it might be harder to sell my stories under my own name.” A shudder moved through Daphne, and she pulled her coat more tightly about her.
Her brother was silent for a long time, and his expression no longer revealed surprise—or any other emotion. The waiting was torturous. Daphne heard every creak the barn made, heard each rustle of straw as animals moved in their stalls.
At last he said, “And what do you intend to do now?”
“I don’t know.” She remembered the look of frust
ration on Joshua’s face, the day he’d asked her about the dime novels on her shelf. She recalled the tinge of anger in his voice. Without question, his frustration and anger would soon be directed at her. Oh, how she wished she could avoid that. “I suppose I shall have to tell Mr. Crawford.”
“Yes. I suppose you shall.”
“I don’t believe he’ll take it very kindly.”
“Can you blame him?” Her brother cocked an eyebrow.
She sighed. “They’re only novels.” She’d said something similar to Joshua a few days ago. The excuse sounded even weaker now.
“How would you feel if you picked up a novel and discovered a disreputable character by the name of Alistair McKinley, who resembled our father in countless other ways? Same family. Same hometown. Same work. But devious and dishonest and wicked instead of the god-fearing man we knew.”
“I wouldn’t like it.”
“No. Neither would I.”
“But what if the real Richard Terrell was the same as the character in my books? What if I’m right and Mr. Crawford is wrong? I shouldn’t have to apologize for telling the truth. Should I?”
Morgan shrugged. “You’ll have to sort that out for yourself, Daphne.”
“Some help you are.”
With a grin, her brother put his arm around her shoulders. “I do what I can.” He turned her toward the barn door. “Come on. We’d best help Gwen get the children ready for the drive home.”
She supposed she should be glad that he hadn’t scolded or lectured her. Now if she could only believe Joshua Crawford’s reaction would be as mild as her brother’s.
August 25, 1872
“For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.” James 2:26
It occurs to me that I must do more than explore my past in order to avoid making the same mistakes. God requires more of me than that. I must somehow give back. I must give to others. I came to St. Louis with money that has been tainted by the choices I’ve made. While legally mine, much of it remains ill-gotten gain, and I would now like to use it to help others less fortunate. I wish to turn it over to the Lord for His use.
Thus, I am in the process of purchasing two buildings in the city. One will become an orphanage. I know what it is like to be left an orphan. I want to give poor fatherless and motherless children a chance to thrive, even if they must do so in an orphanage. The other building will become a home for men who are without work, without income or an ability to earn a living.
A recent acquaintance of mine from our church has partnered with me in this new venture. Kevin Donahue is thirty-nine, a father of three, and respected in the community. Best of all, he also wants to serve God and desires to help those less fortunate.
I believe Kevin and I shall become good friends, and even though he is younger than I am by more than twelve years, I trust he will give me some good parenting advice once Annie gives birth to our first child.
TEN
Daphne waved as Morgan pulled his automobile away from the curb. Then with a sigh, she turned and walked toward the front porch, silently debating whether she should go to see Mr. Crawford at once or if she should finish polishing her next column instead. It might be good to take it with her. Perhaps they could discuss it first, before she told him what else she’d written. Perhaps she should wait until—
“Miss McKinley.”
She gave a little shriek and spun toward the sound of her name.
Joshua rose from the chair at the end of her porch. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve been waiting for your return.”
Her heart hammered in her chest. It seemed God had chosen the time and place for her to tell him the truth. She wasn’t to have the luxury of putting it off another hour or to another day.
“There’s a matter I need to discuss with you,” he said as he moved toward her. His eyes seemed cold, his mouth a hard line.
Nerves tumbled in her stomach. “There’s something I need to discuss with you as well, Mr. Crawford. Do come inside. It’s too cold to linger out here.” She opened the screen door. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
He made no reply as he followed her inside.
How should she begin? Should she simply blurt it out? Or should she apologize first and then try to explain the choices she’d made?
Tea. She would make some tea first. It was the hospitable thing to do. And hopefully, by the time it brewed, she wouldn’t feel her insides shaking the way they were now.
“Please be seated, Mr. Crawford, while I make a pot of tea.”
But he didn’t sit down in the parlor as invited. Instead, he followed her into the kitchen. “Don’t bother with the tea on my account.”
“To be honest, I’m chilled from the drive back from the Arlington ranch and could use something warm to drink.”
After raking live coals from the back to the front of the firebox, she added wood until she had a blaze going. Then she filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.
“It won’t take long to prepare the tea, Mr. Crawford.” She took the fine-bone china teapot, the one painted with royal-blue roses, from its place on the shelf near the window. Soon the teapot was joined by the canister that held her favorite tea leaves, the china strainer, and two delicate cups.
Only when everything was ready and waiting for the water to boil did she turn toward her guest again. He remained standing, his hands now resting on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. The way he scowled at her sent a shudder up her spine and caused her mouth to go dry.
He knows already. He’s learned the truth before I could tell him.
There was no point in dragging it out another moment. “Yes, Mr. Crawford.”
“Yes?” His frown deepened.
“I’m D. B. Morgan.” She drew in a breath and released it. “I’m the author of The McFarland Chronicles.”
He muttered something under his breath.
Daphne moved toward the table, stopping opposite him. “I’m sorry for the injury you feel my books have done to you.”
“Not to me. To my grandfather.”
“I have something for you.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew the slip of paper Griff had given to her, holding it out to Joshua.
He took it, read it, then looked at her again. “Are these names supposed to mean something to me?”
“Frank and Lawrence Coughlin knew your grandfather when he lived in Bethlehem Springs. I understand they worked for him. They’re the ones who told Griff about Richard Terrell.”
“And then Mr. Arlington told you?”
She nodded. “But he didn’t know what I did with the information. He thought he was just telling me stories about the early days of Bethlehem Springs and Idaho. That’s how it started. I was so curious about everything and was always asking him questions. He’s a fount of knowledge about the early settling of the West. But he never knew I would put those stories into my books because he didn’t know about my writing. No one knew I’d written any novels until today when I told Morgan.” She pointed at the slip of paper in his hand. “The Coughlins can verify what I…what I wrote in my books about Richard Terrell.”
Joshua wished Daphne hadn’t admitted her guilt before he could make his accusations. Now the anger inside him had no place to go, no way to be spent, and it left him aggravated beyond description. To make matters worse, she seemed certain that these two men—“Frank and Lawrence Coughlin, Stone Creek, Idaho,” the slip of paper said—would verify the stories she’d written about his grandfather. If so, they were liars.
“Where is Stone Creek?” he asked through a clenched jaw.
“Griff told me it’s about fifty miles southeast of here.”
He folded the paper in two before sliding it into his coat pocket. He wanted more than an apology from the author. He needed evidence to take back with him so he could shove the truth down Gregory Halifax’s throat. Only then would he have a chance of being reemployed by the newspaper.<
br />
And if Daphne wouldn’t provide what he needed, maybe he would sue her for libel. She was worth a fortune. Why not reap a reward? It was her fault he’d lost his temper with Halifax, her fault—in an indirect way—that he’d lost his job. He would surely win in a court of law, and she wouldn’t miss the money.
On the heels of that thought came convicting words of Scripture. Better he be wronged, First Corinthians told him, better he be defrauded, than that he take a fellow believer to court. Which only served to make his anger increase. Was he to have no justice, no satisfaction, no righting of the wrong?
The kettle began to whistle, and Daphne turned toward the stove. Joshua watched for a moment as she poured water into the teapot, then he walked to the door, letting himself out without a word of farewell. Anger quickened his stride and carried him quickly along the sidewalk toward the newspaper office.
“Mr. Crawford! Mr. Crawford, wait!”
He stopped and turned, surprised that she’d followed him. She hadn’t even taken the time to put on a coat before leaving her house.
“Mr. Crawford.” She stopped a few feet away. “Please believe me when I tell you I meant no one any harm. I wrote only what I believed to be true about Richard Terrell. He’s part of the history of Idaho.”
“But what you wrote isn’t history. That man in your books isn’t my grandfather. Your stories are based on fables or gossip. Nothing more. And your books haven’t just caused my grandfather’s name to be maligned. They cost me my job back in St. Louis.”
“I don’t understand.” Daphne hugged herself. “How could my novels do that?”
He felt a tug of guilt for stretching the truth. If he’d kept his temper in check, if he hadn’t punched Halifax, he would still have his job. But he wasn’t ready to let her off the hook for any part of this. Not yet. “Words have power, Miss McKinley. Even words in a novel. You may think your stories are simply for entertainment, but they still have the power to build up or tear down.”
“What if everything I wrote about Richard Terrell turns out to be true?”
“It won’t.”
She took two steps closer to him. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink from the cold. “But if it does?”
Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Page 9
