Every Perfect Gift

by Dorothy Love

  Sophie nodded. She had been visiting Ada Wentworth the day Robbie Whiting’s father rode in to report that Wyatt Caldwell was taking the next train to Texas. That was the day Ada put her trust in God’s plans and changed all their lives.

  “I’m devoting my life to helping the sick,” Gillie said. “It’s my true calling. And I owe it all to a . . . woman of loose morals.”

  “A . . .” Sophie wasn’t a prude, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak a word polite ladies only hinted at.

  “Exactly.” Gillie bobbed her head. “Annie Cook. She owned a house of ill repute in Memphis. A very nice one, so they say. When the yellow fever epidemic broke out several years back, people left town like rats leaving a sinking ship, but she stayed and turned her place into a hospital. She took care of the sick folks till she herself died of the fever. It was in all the papers.” Gillie looked up, her face full of light. “If that doesn’t prove that God can use anybody for the good, I do not know what does. Annie Cook gave her life for other people.”

  Sophie made a mental note to look into Miss Cook’s story. It might make an inspiring piece for the paper one day. “I hope you won’t be called upon to go that far.”

  “So far my career has consisted mostly of tending colicky babies and patching up farming injuries. But Doc Spencer is teaching me to deliver babies. At nursing school we weren’t allowed to attend a mother on our own.”

  Outside, the train whistle shrieked. Gillie shot to her feet. “My goodness—noon already. I didn’t intend to take so much of your time.”

  “That’s all right. Truthfully, I’m glad for your company. I’m afraid I don’t have friends here. Except for Robbie Whiting, I never did.”

  “Their loss.” Gillie’s voice was warm with welcome. “But you’ve got one now.”

  Sophie returned Gillie’s smile. How wonderful it would be to have someone near her own age to laugh with and confide in. “I hope so. Thanks for bringing my bank receipt.”

  “No trouble.” Gillie waved one dainty hand and headed for the door. “I’ll see you later.”

  Sophie emptied the dirty water from her cleaning bucket and draped the rag over the windowsill to dry, then headed for the hotel to freshen up before her trip up the mountain to Blue Smoke. Despite her education and practical experience contributing stories to the Galveston News and the Oklahoma Star, the mere thought of interviewing someone as powerful as Mr. Heyward made her stomach tight with nerves.

  If she made a mess of this first real interview, folks would talk, as they always did in small Southern towns. If that happened, nobody would take her or her newspaper seriously. More than anything, she wanted her newspaper to succeed—to prove to the Caldwells that their faith in her was justified and to secure her future. She couldn’t depend upon Wyatt Caldwell forever. He and Ada had their own children, Wade and Lilly, to consider.

  The hotel parlor was quiet. A mother cradling a sleeping infant sat in the wing chair beside the window and gazed onto the busy street. Two salesmen in wool suits and bowler hats occupied the settee. Sophie retrieved her key from the room clerk and climbed the creaking stairs to her room. She changed into her best dress, a dark green frock with lace collar and cuffs, and picked up the new spring hat Ada had made for her. The jaunty little toque, adorned with netting and a single white silk flower, complemented her creamy skin and gray-green eyes.

  She studied her reflection in the mottled mirror above the washstand and fought the fresh wave of apprehension moving through her. Despite her fair skin and straight hair, rumors that at least one of her parents carried African blood had marked her childhood and set her apart. Suppose she encountered the same thing now?

  Back home in Texas, among Mexican vaqueros who worked Wyatt’s ranch, hundreds of German and Czech immigrants, and African sugar plantation workers who sailed to Galveston to begin a new life, it had been easy to avoid questions about her family. Living with the Caldwells, moving through the world under their protection, had given her entrée into the finest homes and schools in Texas. Even so, without a blood family and a history to anchor her, she hadn’t fit in with most of the other girls at Miss Halliday’s School for Young Ladies. As much as she’d loved learning, graduating and starting her work in Dallas had come as an enormous relief.

  She secured her hat with a pearl hatpin and brushed at a smudge of dirt on her nose. Maybe Wyatt was right and it was a mistake to come back to a place where some people—Mr. Pruitt at the mercantile, for instance—would remember the old gossip, and the hurt and rejection might well catch up with her again.

  Fighting a wave of homesickness for Texas and the Caldwells, she gathered her bag, her notebook, and her pens and hurried from the inn to Mr. Tanner’s livery. No sense in borrowing trouble. She’d made her choice. And the venerable Mr. Heyward must not be kept waiting.

  TWO

  “Mr. Heyward?” Tim O’Brien, the lanky, red-haired young Irishman Ethan had lured away from Gilman’s bank with the promise of higher wages and shorter hours, stuck his head into the room. “That newspaper reporter is here.”

  Ethan set aside the payroll ledger he’d been perusing and glanced at the leather-bound appointment calendar lying open on his desk. He’d nearly forgotten his promise to give the reporter a tour of the facilities. Normally he enjoyed showing visitors around the marvel that was Blue Smoke, but today he was preoccupied with half a dozen headaches—delayed deliveries, absentee workers he’d been counting on to finish the flooring in the ballroom, and rumors of growing unrest among Negro workers and the Irish boys he’d imported from back east. Besides, the way he understood it, the Gazette was not actually in operation yet. It was only someone’s dream—the way Blue Smoke was his.

  Still, once the resort opened, he’d need the newspaper, not only to keep people apprised of goings-on atop the mountain, but to act as a jobber for printing stationery, menus, guest cards, and daily activity sheets. If an afternoon with the reporter would put the resort into the good graces of the paper’s owner, perhaps he could negotiate more favorable terms when the time came.

  “And, Mr. Heyward? Just a word of warning, sir. Mr. Blakely arrives tomorrow afternoon.” The secretary waved a telegram in the air. “It says here he’ll be wanting another powwow with you about the delay on the passenger car.”

  Ethan heaved a sigh, unrolled his sleeves, and slipped into his gray wool jacket. “One problem at a time, Tim. Show Mr. Caldwell in.”

  “’Tisn’t a Mr. Caldwell, sir. She’s a girl.” The secretary grinned. “Pretty one too.”

  Ethan frowned. “Show her in.”

  He was prepared to be annoyed at having been misled, but one look at the young woman who stood framed in his doorway dispelled that thought. The only word that came to mind was breathtaking. He took her in—creamy skin, high cheekbones, eyes the most unusual shade of green. Glossy black hair tucked neatly into a stylish hat. A willowy figure. In the golden light coming through the Palladian windows, she reminded him of the portrait of his mother that had once graced his boyhood home.

  “Mr. Heyward?” She crossed the carpet and inclined her head, a smile playing on her lips. “I’m—”

  He bowed slightly. “S. R. Caldwell.”

  A faint blush crept into her cheeks. “Yes. Thank you for seeing me. I’m looking forward to touring the resort. The entrance is quite grand.”

  “Isn’t it? The doors came from an abandoned castle in Scotland. My partner—”

  “Excuse me.” S. R. Caldwell opened her bag and took out a notebook and pen. “Your partner—that would be Mr. Blakely? Mr. Horace Blakely?”

  “That’s right.” He waited while she scribbled, fascinated at the way her slender fingers gripped the steel pen.

  She smiled up at him, her green eyes sparkling. His heart lurched. He lost his train of thought.

  She flipped to a clean sheet in her small notebook. “Please continue, Mr. Heyward.”

  He cleared his throat. “Where was I? Oh yes, the doors. Horace—Mr. Bla
kely—happened upon the ruin during a tramping excursion and tracked down the owner, who was only too glad to sell the entire edifice for a song. We managed to salvage many of the old stones, some of the timbers, and that magnificent set of doors. As best we can tell, they date from the fifteenth century.”

  He watched her scribble some more. “Miss Caldwell, would you care for tea before we begin our tour? And perhaps your driver would like some too. The wind is sharp today, and it’s quite a trip up here.”

  The reporter laughed, an infectious, bell-like sound. “I drove myself, Mr. Heyward, and yes, thank you. Tea would be delightful. If you don’t mind my asking more questions while we pour.”

  Ethan nodded to his secretary, who scurried away, and motioned his guest to a chair.

  “I’m happy to answer any question you may have. If you’ll answer one for me.”

  She looked up, suddenly wary. “What kind of question?”

  “I’m wondering why you took such care to disguise your identity. And why the newspaper owner would send someone so young up this mountain all by herself. Seems to me he should have come in your stead or, at the very least, provided you a suitable escort.”

  “That’s two questions—and an opinion.”

  He smiled. “So it is.”

  She studied him, her expression calm, and folded her hands in her lap. “I signed my queries to you using my initials so as not to prejudice you against me from the outset. Here we are closing in on a brand-new century, and yet you’d be surprised at how many people don’t want to give women a chance, no matter our qualifications.”

  He toyed with a small paperweight. “I can imagine.”

  She bobbed her head, and the white flower on her hat fluttered. “I’m not one for beating around the bush, Mr. Heyward. I may as well tell you I’m the owner of the Gazette too. There is no one else.”

  He considered himself a pretty good judge of women, and this one couldn’t be many years past twenty-one. Even if she turned out to be a crack reporter, which he doubted—fine reporters, like fine wood, needed seasoning—what in the Sam Hill made her think she could run a newspaper, even a small one, all by herself?

  But she was already on the defensive. Now was not the time to bring up that subject. “Do you mind yet another question? What does the S. R. stand for? After all, you know my name. Doesn’t seem fair that I don’t know yours.”

  Another lightning-quick smile. “Sophie Robillard.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. Ah, here comes tea.”

  He waited while O’Brien set down the tea tray and then quietly withdrew, shutting the door softly. “Shall I pour for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He filled their cups, passed lemon and sugar, and took a long sip. “Now I’m all yours. Ask away.”

  Twenty minutes later, he recanted his assessment of her reportorial skills. This girl . . . woman . . . extracted facts and figures about the resort from him that he hadn’t even realized he knew. By the time the teapot was empty, his mind swam with all he had told her. And with the intriguing realization that S. R. Caldwell was, in every significant way, more than his match.

  A train whistle sounded as another load of furnishings arrived via the railway that had been built to ferry men and materials up to the ridge from the station in town. He rose. “Shall we take that tour now? I don’t want you driving back down the mountain after dark.”

  “Oh, no need to worry about me. I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe.” Clasping her notebook to her chest, she rose and followed him from his office into the grand lobby.

  Something in her manner irked him. “Tell me, Miss Caldwell, are you always so sure of yourself?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Wide green eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, held his.

  “How can you be sure you’ll come to no harm? Bad things happen to people when they are least expecting it.”

  “I know that. But don’t you think it’s better to assume the best will happen?” She indicated the room with a sweep of her arm. “Perhaps we’d better get back to the tour.”

  “As you wish.” They continued along the broad hallway. “The ceiling was finished only last week. It was painted by Joshua Olmstead of New York. The flowers depicted in each panel are native plants that grow here on the mountain, and each is outlined in twenty-four-carat gold leaf.”

  Sophie Robillard flipped to a new page and made a quick sketch. If she was impressed with the paintings of blue gentians, yellow sunflowers, daisies, violets, and purple asters or with the carved moldings and the Oriental silk runners lying atop gleaming oak floors, she hid it well. She merely observed and scribbled.

  Ethan frowned. Granted, reporters were supposed to be objective and impartial. But would it kill her to express a little enthusiasm for his masterpiece?

  He led her from the lobby to the main ballroom and then to the east wing to see a suite of guest rooms. He took his time describing the antique furnishings, the expensive European linens adorning the canopied bed, the rosewood inlays in the fireplace mantel. She took in the brocade sofas, the Italian silk draperies framing the Palladian windows, her expression one of benign interest. Though his irritation persisted, he couldn’t stop staring at her. Perhaps if he talked long enough, darkness would overtake them and he’d have to see the beautiful young reporter home himself.

  Leaving her horse and rig at the livery, Sophie hurried to the inn as darkness fell. She was chilled from her long drive back from Blue Smoke, but at the same time she felt alive, energized. Ethan Heyward had been a very pleasant surprise. She’d detected some initial irritation at discovering her gender, but to his credit, he had taken her seriously and provided her with enough material for several stories. And there was no point in denying it: he was quite handsome—tall and well muscled, with thick brown hair and an engaging smile. Behind his thin, gold-rimmed spectacles were deep blue eyes that reminded her of the sky reflected in a clear mountain creek. He had about him an air of complete confidence. He moved easily between the hushed, rarefied atmosphere of the gilded resort and the rough-and-tumble army of men working to complete the buildings that were scattered across the lawns like pearls across a tapestry.

  At the end of the afternoon, he had invited her to pay a return visit. Already she looked forward to it.

  “Evening, Miss Caldwell.” The hotel clerk handed her a stack of letters. “Mail came today.”

  “Thank you.” She flipped though the stack, looking for an envelope bearing Ada’s neat handwriting. A letter from home would be the perfect ending to this auspicious day, even though Ada’s descriptions of everything going on at the ranch—Wade and Lilly’s antics, Wyatt’s latest cattle-buying trips—made her long for the familiar.

  “Miss Lucy Partridge from over at the ladies’ hotel came by to tell you your room is ready. You can move in anytime.” He pulled a face. “Sure will miss you, but I reckon it’s more proper for you to live at the Verandah.”

  “So I’m told.” Personally she saw no purpose in having to move. Wasn’t one hotel like another? But Wyatt and Ada had insisted she live at the Verandah. At one time she could have lived in the house Wyatt inherited from his Aunt Lillian and deeded to Ada before their marriage. But Ada had sold the house the year before and donated the money to the Ladies Suffrage Society. Even if it were available, it sat seven miles from town, too far to make living there practical. So the Verandah it was. She tucked away her mail and headed for the stairs.

  “Oh, miss,” the clerk said. “I nearly forgot. Railway agent says your shipment arrived this afternoon. You need to arrange for a delivery.”

  “I will. Thank you, Mr. Foster.”

  “You don’t want any dinner, miss? Before the dining room closes?”

  “I had tea at Blue Smoke. I’m not really very hungry.”

  He whistled. “Well, well. Tea at Blue Smoke. Is it as fancy as people say?”

  “Yes. It’s very grand.”

  The clerk grinned. “Too fancy for my bloo
d. But I don’t reckon I ought to worry about it. Ain’t likely that ordinary folks like me can afford to stay there anyway. I can’t—”

  The door crashed open, and a disheveled man ran inside brandishing a shotgun. The clerk spun around. “Lord have mercy, Trotter. What in the world’s going on?”

  “Sheriff McCracken says to round up every man you can find and git on up to Blue Smoke. They’s a riot going on.”

  The clerk darted from behind the desk. “You’ll have to excuse me, miss. I got to go.”

  A riot? Sophie’s reporter’s instincts kicked in. Everything this afternoon had seemed so calm. What could have triggered such a disturbance?

  She stuffed her mail into her reticule and drew her shawl tightly about her shoulders.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  THREE

  Sophie followed the clerk and Mr. Trotter into the street where half a dozen men were gathered by torchlight, rounding up horses and guns. In the middle of the chaos stood Sheriff Eli McCracken, barking orders.

  “Hurry up with those—” He broke off when he spied Sophie standing next to Mr. Foster, her notebook propped on the hitching rail outside the inn. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?”

  Her pen stilled. “Reporting on the riot, of course. There isn’t time to retrieve my rig. I’ll have to ride up to Blue Smoke with one of you.”

  McCracken shook his head. “Absolutely not. Wyatt Caldwell would have my head on a platter if you got hurt.”

  “Sheriff?” Mr. Trotter jammed his brown felt hat onto his head and swung into his saddle. “We ought to get going.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Sophie snapped her notebook shut and looked up at Wyatt’s old friend. “I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe with you.”

  “Out of the question.” McCracken mounted up, saddle leather creaking, a torch in one hand. “Let’s head out,” he called. “Trotter, Foster, you two take the lead. The rest of you, follow me. We’ll take the old logging trail and come in from behind.”