“I suppose I’d have some apologies of my own to make.” He imagined Gregory Halifax’s smirk and his blood began to boil again. “But I won’t have to apologize because none of it’s true. I knew my grandfather. You didn’t. The only part that’s true is that he once lived in this area and was called Rawhide Rick by a few people.”
“I’ll go with you to Stone Creek to speak to the Coughlin brothers.”
He shook his head. “No. That’s not necessary.” There was no way he wanted to go anywhere with Daphne McKinley.
“I need to know the truth as much as you do, Mr. Crawford. How else can I correct the errors?” She arched her brows. “If any exist.”
The challenge in her eyes was not lost on Joshua. “All right, Miss McKinley. We’ll go together, just as soon as I can arrange to be away from the newspaper for a few days.”
Friday, 1 November 1918
Dearest Mother,
At last I write to you with what I believe is good news. Yesterday afternoon, I discovered the identity of the author of The McFarland Chronicles. To my great surprise, the writer I sought is not a man but a woman, and she writes her books under a pen name. It is my understanding that no one in Bethlehem Springs is aware of her writing endeavors. Even her own family didn’t know until my inquiries forced her confession.
Miss M is a woman of some means and high position, not only in this town but elsewhere. (It is no wonder she uses a pseudonym.) To my great relief, she has agreed to correct the scurrilous assertions made in her novels about Grandfather once I prove that they are, indeed, erroneous. I shall keep her name in my confidence unless she otherwise forces my hand.
Today I was able to make arrangements to meet with the two elderly gentlemen who claim to have known Grandfather in their youth and who were the sources for the material used in Miss M’s novels. They live in another town about fifty miles from Bethlehem Springs, and I will be traveling there next week. I trust that I will be able to reason with them and convince them to tell the truth I seek. If all goes well, I should be able to return to St. Louis early in the New Year.
Has Mary Theresa been to see you? I wrote to her earlier and expect to receive a reply next week. I continue to hope that she has forgiven me for allowing my anger at Mr. Halifax and D. B. Morgan to spill over onto her. How often as a youth did Grandfather warn me about my quick temper? Even now I can hear him quoting Ephesians: “Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you.” I am sorry that I seem unable to practice those same disciplines with greater success in my Christian life.
Give my regards to Charles. I pray that this letter finds you both in good health.
Your devoted son,
Joshua
ELEVEN
When Daphne and Joshua set out from Bethlehem Springs on the following Wednesday, the mood inside the automobile felt as chilly as the frosty November morning outside of it. That Daphne’s passenger was less than happy to spend today and tomorrow in her company was plain as the nose on her face.
Would Joshua feel different toward her after they’d met with the Coughlin brothers? Or perhaps that would only serve to make things worse. She fully expected the elderly gentlemen to confirm all that Griff had told her. If Griff Arlington trusted them to be honest, so did she.
Driving her automobile to Stone Creek had been Daphne’s idea. Another reason for Joshua’s foul mood, no doubt. Taking the train would have left them more than twenty miles from their destination, which would have precipitated hiring a horse and carriage and most likely staying a second night in the Stone Creek boarding house.
“It’s unnecessary,” she’d told Joshua. “My motorcar is sound and the weather is supposed to remain dry all week long.”
“It’s my experience that weather predictions are often incorrect, Miss McKinley. Remember there was snow on the ground only a week ago.”
She had merely smiled at him, and in the end, he’d acquiesced—as men tended to do when she was determined to have her way.
They traveled south without a single word passing between them for three quarters of an hour. That was when Daphne spied five elk drinking at the river’s edge, the lone bull sporting a massive rack. She quickly brought the motorcar to a stop.
“Look.” She pointed across the river. “Isn’t he magnificent?”
Several moments passed before Joshua answered, “Indeed.”
“I never tire of seeing the wildlife in these mountains.” She glanced at Joshua. “As long as we’re stopped, would you care to get out and stretch your legs?”
“Sounds like a good idea.” He opened the passenger door and disembarked, then assisted her out as well.
Pulling her coat close against the cool air, Daphne walked to the edge of the road to watch the elk on the opposite side of the low-running river. The animals had stopped drinking and were returning the stare.
She heard Joshua step up beside her. Without looking his way, she said, “Do you know what that bull elk is thinking? He’s thinking, ‘Do we come into your home and watch while you eat and drink? Please go away.’ ” She laughed aloud, and it was her laughter that seemed to cause one of the cows to turn, unhurried and unafraid, and stride gracefully into the forest, followed soon by the others.
“Do you do that a lot, Miss McKinley?”
“Do what?”
“Imagine the thoughts of wild animals.”
She grinned. “I’m afraid it’s the curse of a novelist, Mr. Crawford. To put oneself into the head of another. To try to think what they think and feel what they feel. To always imagine what will happen next.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re a writer.” Now she looked at him. “Surely you understand what I mean.”
“I’m a journalist, Miss McKinley. I deal in facts, not fairy tales.”
She ignored the note of condescension in his voice and mimicked his previous response, a low and gravelly sound in her throat. “Hmm.”
This, at last, brought the hint of a smile to his lips, and in response, her heart thrummed. Perhaps in time he would be able to forgive her for the wrongs he believed her writing had done him. She hoped so. She wanted him to forgive her. She wanted him to like her, although she couldn’t think why it should matter to her that he did.
“How much farther have we to go?” he asked, bringing her attention to the present.
“Better than an hour and a half. It’s been mostly downhill so far, but after we turn east, we’ll have a few mountains to climb. That will slow us down considerably.”
“Would you like me to drive the rest of the way?”
“If you wish.”
A short while later, the crank was turned, the engine was running, and both driver and passenger were in their seats.
Unwilling to allow silence to fill the motorcar again, Daphne asked a question that she was certain would begin a conversation. “Would you tell me about your grandfather? I know you admired and loved him, but tell me why. What was he like in his latter years?”
Joshua glanced in her direction as he pressed on the accelerator and the automobile rolled forward. His gaze returned to the road before he spoke. “Grandfather was sixty-nine when I was born, and he never seemed to change in the years I remember him. His skin was wrinkled and a bit leathery. The hair on his head was white as snow, and he wore it long enough to brush his shoulders. My mother was always after him to cut it, saying it was too long for the fashion, but she never persuaded him to change. He had a bushy white beard too. He looked a lot like the illustrations of Santa Claus. He seemed tall to me when I was a child, but by the time he passed away, I was already taller.”
Daphne noticed the small smile had returned to the corners of Joshua’s mouth as he spoke.
“He was a strong man, even into his eighties. Almost to the time of his death, he could lift and carry things that many younger men couldn’t.”
“Do you look like him?”
He nodded. “He had only a few photograph
s from his younger years. One was taken of him in California, close to the time the Civil War began. He was a lot leaner then than in his later years and the photograph wasn’t very good, but the resemblance to me today at about the same age is unmistakable.”
“And that pleases you. I can tell.”
“Yes, I guess it does.” He rubbed his chin with his right hand as his smile broadened. “Maybe I should consider growing a beard.”
Daphne preferred Joshua clean-shaven but didn’t share her opinion with him.
“Grandfather liked to suck on peppermints. His breath always smelled of them. That’s my earliest memory of him. Sitting on his lap and smelling peppermint.”
She envied that kind of memory. Her grandparents, both paternal and maternal, had passed away either before she was born or while she was still too young to remember them.
“Above all, Miss McKinley, he was nothing like the character you portrayed in your books. You couldn’t have written a more opposing character if you’d tried.”
Daphne pressed her lips together, swallowing a reply while turning her gaze out the window to her right. There was no point starting another argument. Nothing would be resolved until they reached Stone Creek and met with the Coughlins.
Joshua didn’t need to look at Daphne to know she wanted to protest, to stand up once again for the stories she’d written, and he wished he could call back his words. Why bait her? He would prove the truth soon enough.
He decided to aim the conversation in a different direction. “I believe it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Tell me something I don’t know about the McKinleys.”
“Gracious. What could be left for you to know? You’ve already ferreted out my well-kept secret.”
He glanced at her quickly, wondering if he’d upset her. But she was watching him with a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her lips. Had he ever met a woman with as much self-confidence as she seemed to possess? He thought not. His mother was the shy, retiring sort. And Mary Theresa? She liked to cling to his arm when they were in social settings. Not so Daphne. He had the feeling she was utterly fearless, wherever she found herself.
His gaze back on the road, he couldn’t help but smile as well. “I imagine you have more than one secret, Miss McKinley.”
She answered him with laughter. A sound almost as lovely as she was.
His reaction was instantaneous and unexpected. The desire to take her in his arms and kiss her until he’d left her breathless was so strong he could hardly think straight, let alone remember how to drive. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was as dry as dust.
What was wrong with him? Yes, he’d felt an unwelcome attraction to the lovely Miss McKinley before this. But now that he knew she was D. B. Morgan, he should feel nothing more for her than…than contempt. Or at the very least, indifference. Certainly he should have more self-control than to allow a woman’s laughter to stir such a strong response. Particularly this young woman.
“I believe, Mr. Crawford, that I am mostly an open book.” Her voice was soft, barely audible above the putter of the engine.
Her beauty was indisputable. In the short time he’d known her, he’d been captivated by her wit and charm—which she had in abundance. Even when he was angry because of her irresponsible portrayal of his grandfather in her silly little books, he’d found he still enjoyed her company. How could that be?
“Except for my writing, I’ve tried not to keep secrets.”
He cleared his throat. “Wise words, indeed.”
“I’ve learned keeping secrets can complicate one’s life.” She paused for a moment, then added, “And they often hurt those you love too.”
Have you ever been in love, Miss McKinley? The question that popped into his head was not the kind a gentleman could ask aloud, but he wished he had the answer to it all the same.
The necessity of backing an automobile up steep hillsides to avoid flooding the engine was both bothersome and time consuming, and it took them longer to reach Stone Creek than Daphne had expected. It was already suppertime when Joshua stopped the motorcar in front of the boarding house.
The proprietress of the Stone Creek Boarding House was a Mrs. Hannigan, a plump, short, buxom woman with graying brown hair and a friendly smile. She took them straight to the dining room. “You’ll be wanting to eat first, and I’ll show you to your rooms when we’re done.”
Daphne would have loved a few minutes to freshen up, but it seemed she wasn’t to have that option.
Mrs. Hannigan made quick introductions of the three other people at the table—her sixteen-year-old daughter, Fiona Hanni-gan; Mr. Pratt, a traveling salesman; and Miss Conner, who had come to Stone Creek to marry the manager of the bank. “And this is Miss McKinley and Mr. Crawford, who’ll be with us for one night.”
“How do you do,” Daphne said with a nod to each person before slipping onto one of the empty chairs.
Joshua sat beside her.
“And what brings you and Mr. Crawford to Stone Creek?” Mr. Pratt passed Daphne a bowl of mashed potatoes.
She thought about her response for a moment, not certain how much she wanted to reveal to a perfect stranger.
Joshua answered before her. “I’m the editor of the Bethlehem Springs’ newspaper, and I’ve come to interview two men about some early Idaho history. Miss McKinley writes a column for the Triweekly Herald and is along to observe.”
Daphne couldn’t decide if she should be irritated with Joshua for speaking when Mr. Pratt had addressed his question to her or if she should admire him for the careful yet truthful reply. She decided on the latter for the sake of peaceful coexistence.
As Joshua slid a slice of meatloaf from a platter onto his plate, he asked Mr. Pratt about the products he sold, and throughout the remainder of the meal, he peppered the others with questions, easily drawing out information from each one of them. It was quite the artful display. Daphne couldn’t help but be impressed. He must have been a crackerjack reporter back in St. Louis. She had the feeling their interview with the Coughlin brothers wouldn’t take long. Whatever they knew about Richard Terrell, Joshua would have it out of them quickly—and perhaps even more than they intended to tell.
And judging by the way Fiona Hannigan stared across the table at Joshua, she would have told him anything he wanted too. The girl wore a star-stuck expression. Dazzled no doubt by Joshua’s charisma and good looks. Or maybe it was the intense blue of his eyes. Whenever he looked at Daphne, she felt—
No, she wouldn’t allow her thoughts to go there again. In the weeks since she’d first seen Joshua Crawford in the South Fork Restaurant, she’d given far too much thought to his eyes. Of course it was only because she wanted to include a character with similar eyes in her book. Purely a literary interest. That was all.
September 9, 1872
Thanks be to God! Our daughter, Angelica Ruth, was delivered safely today. I would not have thought it possible that one glimpse at her beautiful little face would cause me to be overwhelmed by such indescribable joy. I am a father. I had a part in giving this child life. She is in my care. I am responsible for her well being, for her education, for helping her to know Christ from an early age. It is my duty to show her how to live a righteous and honorable life, to grow into a giving and caring young woman. It is not a charge I take lightly. May she never know what a wretched man her father was in the early years of his life.
Annie had a difficult time of it. The labor lasted more than forty-eight hours, and the doctor told me it would be unwise for her to have more children. He warned that another labor like this one might take her life and the life of the child too. I haven’t had the heart to tell Annie that news yet. Tomorrow or the next day will be soon enough. I know she will be heartbroken, for she has spoken often throughout these months of wanting several children. Not impossible for a woman of thirty-six, but it appears now that it is not God’s plan for us to have a full quiver. (“As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man;
so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them: they shall not be ashamed, but they shall speak with the enemies in the gate.” Psalm 127:4-5)
During Annie’s labor, while I waited, worried, and prayed, I thought of my parents. My mother was Annie’s age when she died, my father just two years older. I had not considered before how young they were when their lives ended. But at least I know, now that I am in Christ, that I shall see them again. What a blessed hope that is.
TWELVE
Despite Joshua’s hopes to the contrary, Daphne did not rest well. She tossed and turned much of the night and arose before dawn with a headache that pounded in her temples and made her eyes squint. She hoped a hot cup of tea would ease the pain. Otherwise, the long drive back to Bethlehem Springs would be a miserable one.
She was surprised to find Joshua already in the dining room when she entered it. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept well.
“Morning,” he said when he saw her.
“Good morning.”
He pointed to the sideboard that held several covered plates and bowls. “Mrs. Hannigan said to help yourself.”
Daphne’s stomach rolled at the suggestion of food. She would begin with tea. A couple of minutes later, she sat at the table, holding a cup between both hands.
“Frank Coughlin said in his reply that we were welcome to call early this morning. If you think you can be ready—” He checked his pocket watch. “—I thought we would leave here at eight o’clock.”
She took a sip of the hot beverage before answering, “I’ll be ready whenever you say.”
“It seems our drive back to Bethlehem Springs will be a cold one. The temperature dipped sharply during the night.”
A headache and frigid weather. Oh, how she longed to be home in her own cozy cottage. She hoped Joshua’s interview with the Coughlins wouldn’t take long. At the moment, she couldn’t care less what they had to say. She didn’t care whether or not her portrayal of Rawhide Rick was accurate. She just wanted to go home.
Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Page 10
