by Dorothy Love
The door opened and Carrie Daly Rutledge rushed out, her copper curls bound in a pale blue ribbon. “Sophie.” Carrie wrapped both arms around Sophie and held her tight. “Our darling girl, here at last. Come in. I want you to meet Griff and Charlotte.”
Sophie followed Carrie into the spacious, light-filled cottage. A bank of windows faced a lush meadow where five or six horses stood placidly cropping grass.
“Griff? Darling?”
“So this is the Caldwells’ famous ward?” An extraordinarily handsome dark-haired man crossed in front of the fireplace and clasped both Sophie’s hands. “Welcome to our home. Carrie has talked of little else but your arrival ever since we found out you were coming back here.”
Sophie dropped her gaze. She loved the Caldwells with everything that was in her, and they loved her too. But Mr. Rutledge’s use of the word ward reminded her that she didn’t belong to anyone. Not really. Despite all the advantages Wyatt and Ada had provided her, the one thing they couldn’t give her was a heritage. She was still a muddlebones, a mongrel, an orphan with two borrowed names and no real knowledge of who she was or where she came from. Sometimes a fragment of a song or story, a half-remembered dream, would feel oddly familiar, but her attempts to connect it to anything real brought only a vague sadness.
“We’re delighted to see you.” Mr. Rutledge, his dark eyes radiating warmth, kissed her hand just as a tiny replica of Carrie danced into the room, one shoe missing, her hair a tumble of dark curls.
“Papa, look what I found.” She held out a fistful of violets.
Griff laughed and scooped her into his arms. “Where have you been, my sweet? And where on earth is your shoe?”
The girl’s mother watched the exchange, obviously smitten with them both. “Sophie, this is our daughter, Charlotte.”
“Hello.” Sophie smiled at the little girl, who reminded her so much of the Caldwells’ young daughter, Lilly, that a pang of homesickness shot through her. She nodded toward the meadow. “I was just admiring your papa’s horses. Back home in Texas I have a young mare who is often too spirited for her own good. I have a horse named Cherokee too. She’s almost too old to ride now, but she’s very gentle, and I love her more than anything.”
Griff set his daughter on her feet. Arms akimbo, Charlotte cocked one hip. “I’d want to ride the spirited one.”
“Would you? Do you know how to ride yet?”
“Yes’m. I have a pony, but Mama won’t let me ride her unless Papa is with me. ’Cause I fell off Majestic one time and bumped my head, and I couldn’t even breathe.”
“I heard about Majestic,” Sophie said. “I heard he won the very first race ever held in Hickory Ridge.”
Charlotte nodded. “Mama gots a picture of it. I’ll show you.”
She raced from the room. Mr. Rutledge smiled and caught his wife’s eye. “Darling, I hate to rush things, but we should eat soon. I need to go back up to Blue Smoke.”
“Oh, Griff, must you? On Sunday?”
“I’m afraid so. One of the riding trails still needs clearing, and I want to check on that new bay gelding. He’s favoring a hind foot, and I don’t want to continue training him until he’s completely well.”
Carrie turned to Sophie. “My husband is in charge of the entire equestrian program at Blue Smoke. As much as he loves the work, I do sometimes wish he weren’t quite so indispensable.”
“In another year or so I won’t have to spend so much time there,” Griff told Sophie. “I do enjoy it, but I’m looking forward to having more time to devote to my own stables.”
“Here it is!” Charlotte ran to Sophie and handed her a framed photograph. “That’s my papa and Majestic. I think he’s the handsomest ever.”
Griff laughed and ruffled his daughter’s curls. “Are you talking about me or the horse?”
Carrie smiled and led Sophie to a chair at the table. “You just sit right here and relax. Everything is ready and warming on the stove. I’ll be right back.”
FOUR
Ethan Heyward tapped on the glass and opened the door to the Gazette office. “Anybody home?”
“Mr. Heyward.” Sophie grabbed a rag, wiped the ink from her fingers, and removed the long apron she wore in the dusty composing room. Seating herself behind her desk, she motioned him into the chair across from her. “May I help you?”
He lowered his lanky frame into the chair and crossed his ankles. “I was in town and thought I should pay a call.”
Aware of his intent gaze, she glanced away. Why hadn’t she taken more care getting dressed this morning? She’d worn her old faded calico and pinned her hair up every which way, without even looking into the mirror. Ada was forever reminding her about her appearance, but she was usually too intent upon her work to bother. She should have paid more attention this morning, because Mr. Heyward was still watching her, his blue eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles full of undisguised interest. Despite her unanswered questions about the goings-on up at Blue Smoke, she couldn’t help noticing that the expression in his eyes and the slight dimple in his chin made him seem at once studious and playful—a most attractive combination.
He swept one hand around the sunlit office. “I assume you’re open for business.”
“Yes. I’m behind schedule because I took half a day getting settled in at the ladies’ hotel and catching up on my correspondence, but the first issue is almost ready for printing.”
“Glad to hear it. We can’t have a real town without a newspaper.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you’d give me an advance look?”
“Then you’d have no need to buy a copy, would you?”
“I suppose not,” he said, smiling. “But if we’re to do business together in the future—”
Understanding dawned. “I see. You expect to control what I write. A quid pro quo.”
“I wouldn’t call it that. Let’s just say I like to be sure that whatever is printed about Blue Smoke is accurate.”
She felt her blood heating. “That’s an insult to any newspaper writer worth her salt. I trained at a big city newspaper, Mr. Heyward, a very respected one. Of course my reporting is accurate.”
He shifted in his chair. “I don’t mean to offend you. But one of the men told me that you came up to the resort with the sheriff the other night when that little skirmish broke out. To someone who doesn’t understand how a large operation like Blue Smoke works, such a scuffle might give the wrong impression.”
“I didn’t get the wrong impression, but maybe you will clear something up for me.”
“Certainly.”
“When I toured there last week, you took pains to show me the grand ballroom and the twenty-four bedrooms and the thirty bathrooms and the grounds, but I learned very little about where the men live and work, what their lives are like.”
“I didn’t suppose it would interest you. Hardly anyone cares about how a project gets done, as long as it comes in on time and under budget.” He leaned forward. “Besides, the workers’ quarters are no place for a lady. I didn’t wish to offend you. I’m the first to admit the shacks are not all that fancy. But the men who are here without their families have no reason to come and go from the mountain every day. It’s more efficient for them to sleep at the site.”
“And less expensive for you and Mr. Blakely too.”
“We’re paying more than fair wages. And we’ve no shortage of men wanting to work here. In fact, I’ve a few more men due in on this afternoon’s train.”
“So that’s why you’re on one of your rare visits to town?”
“Who says they’re rare?”
She arched her brow and rose. “Confidential sources. Thank you for stopping by, but I must get back to work. Please don’t worry, Mr. Heyward. I’ve reported the events accurately.”
He rose and a small leather notebook fell from his pocket. Before he could retrieve it, she scooped it up and handed it back to him. “I intend to build the Gazette into the best paper in the region. I’m not planni
ng on any sensationalism. But I will offer my opinion on things.”
“That’s your prerogative, I suppose.” He tucked the notebook away and consulted his pocket watch. “The train isn’t due in for another half hour, and I was heading over to Miss Hattie’s for a bite to eat. Is there any chance you might join me?”
She considered. Work awaited, but Ethan Heyward, despite his take-charge attitude, charmed her. And she was hungry. This morning she’d overslept and had headed straight for work, bypassing the pot of sticky oatmeal bubbling on the stove in Lucy’s kitchen.
“Let me get my hat.”
He waited for her and offered his arm as they crossed the busy street, dodging a couple of empty freight wagons rumbling toward the station.
Inside Miss Hattie’s, Ethan ordered a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits with butter and jam. Miss Hattie, her iron-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, shuffled to the table, the tea things rattling and tipping precariously on the tray. Ethan got to his feet to steady her. “Allow me, ma’am.”
“Sit down, young man. I’m not completely incompetent yet.” Miss Hattie set down the tray and squinted at Sophie. “Do I know you?”
“I lived here when I was a child. But I’ve been away for quite a long time.”
“That’s right. I remember now. You’re the one Wyatt Caldwell took to Texas when he married that Yankee girl.”
The door opened, and Miss Hattie spun away to greet her next customers.
Ethan added sugar to his tea and stirred. “Wyatt Caldwell is the first person I heard about when I got here. It seems he’s a near legend in these parts.”
“He owned the lumber mill back then. He sold it when his aunt, Miss Lillian Willis, passed on. His wife, Ada, worked for Miss Lillian and made hats too.” She patted the blue silk toque atop her head. “Still does.”
He smiled and buttered a biscuit. “Very fetching. How did you find life in Texas?”
“I loved it. Wyatt established a ranch west of Fort Worth. I grew up riding horses and branding longhorns. And helping Ada with her hatmaking business.” She sipped the fragrant tea. “When I went away to school in Dallas, I fell in love with newspapering, so Wyatt arranged for me to work with Mrs. Mills at the Telegraph. She’s a correspondent for papers all across Texas.” She set down her cup. “I’m lucky to have had such good training.”
He chewed and swallowed. “See, that’s what puzzles me. Why would someone who could have gone to an established newspaper choose to come here and start from scratch?”
“Maybe for the same reason you came here to carve a resort out of a mountain.” She smiled. “It’s an adventure to build something from the ground up, isn’t it?”
His eyes lit up. “Yes, that’s exactly it. When Horace asked me to design Blue Smoke and oversee the construction, it was a dream come true.”
Sophie buttered a biscuit and topped it off with a dollop of strawberry jam. “Do you still feel that way?”
“For the most part. Every endeavor has its challenges, and Blue Smoke is no different.” He dropped a sugar cube into his cup and refilled it. “But everything is under control.”
“No more riots?”
“There never was one. The entire episode was blown all out of proportion. Anytime you get a large group of men together, a few bad apples are bound to cause trouble.”
His face closed down. Clearly he wanted to change the subject. Sophie finished her tea and watched the customers come and go from Miss Hattie’s. The train whistle shrieked. Mr. Heyward stood and held her chair. “I’m sorry to rush off, but—”
“It’s all right. I should get back to work myself.” She rose. “Thank you for the tea and biscuits.”
“My pleasure. I enjoyed our conversation.” He smiled down at her, and she felt herself warming once more to his charm and intelligence. If he could resist the urge to control the content of her newspaper, perhaps they could forge a pleasant working relationship after all.
They left the restaurant as the train emptied and passengers scattered to await their baggage. At the end of the platform stood a knot of men, each carrying a small white bundle. Ethan frowned and his generous mouth formed a hard, straight line.
“Is something wrong?”
“When I wired my colleague out west for more laborers, I never dreamed he’d send a bunch of Chinese.”
Sophie watched as the men chattered to each other, gesturing first toward the looming mountains and then to the train. Her heart ached for them. A few years back, the papers had been full of stories about the Chinese Exclusion Act the Congress had passed in an effort to end Chinese immigration. According to the editorials she read, people objected to the foreigners because they took American jobs laying railroad track and harvesting crops. Some writers called the Chinese “the yellow plague” and “slant-eyed Chinamen.” It was disgusting.
“Well, they’re here. And I can’t afford to send them back.” Ethan Heyward frowned, and Sophie’s hope for a friendship with him dimmed. Apparently Ethan Heyward had little use for anyone who was different.
Ethan handed the five Chinese over to the cook and headed back inside. The newcomers seemed eager to work. With Li Chung to show them the ropes, they should adapt quickly to the routine. In the meantime, he had a million details to work out before the grand opening on the first Saturday in June. Only seven weeks remained to finish the landscaping, place the last of the furniture, hire the housekeepers, waiters, and valets, and plan the ball, to which he had invited everyone from Governor Bate on down.
“O’Brien?”
His secretary entered, pen and notebook in hand. “Sir?”
“How are the arrangements for the ball coming along?”
“So far, a hundred and twenty yeses, seven nos, and forty odd who haven’t replied.” O’Brien paused. “You got a lady in mind for yourself?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Haven’t asked her yet, though.”
“Well, don’t wait too long, sir. Ladies take a long time to pick out a fancy dress and such.”
Ethan nodded and opened the leather ledger on his desk. “Be sure to pick up cash at the bank before payday.”
“What about the Chinamen?”
Ethan thought for a minute. “Go ahead and pay them for the week. They’re probably broke after their trip.” He ran his finger down a column of the ledger. “I was worried that hiring more Chinese might cause a disturbance, but so far everything’s quiet.”
O’Brien scribbled in his notebook. “Speakin’ of disturbances, Sean Murphy’s been spreading it around that whoever talked to that lady reporter the night the sheriff came up here told her fights go on all the time. Murphy said the lady asked a lot of questions.”
“So I heard. But I suppose that’s what reporters do.” Ethan signed a cash-withdrawal note and slid it across the desk. “Did Murphy say who it was that talked to her?”
“That boy who lives out near the mill. Works on the finish crew. I can’t ever remember his name. I’ll find out if you want.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll handle it.” Ethan sorted through a stack of mail and signed the purchase orders O’Brien had left on his desk earlier.
“All right.” O’Brien scribbled on his notepad. “By the way, Mr. Blakely’s looking for you.”
Ethan took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Last week his boss had moved from Baltimore to a palatial suite of rooms at Blue Smoke, bringing his wife and daughters with him. On the one hand, the move made it easier for Ethan to get a quick answer to any question that arose. On the other, having Horace constantly underfoot, second-guessing every decision Ethan made, was a trial. “If it’s about the passenger car, nothing has changed. But I’ll go see—”
“Ethan?” Horace loomed in the doorway. “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”
O’Brien sent Ethan a sympathetic look and hurried out.
Ethan stood and reached across the desk to shake his boss’s hand. “I had to go to town. What can I do for you, Horace?”
Horace collapsed heavily into the chair opposite Ethan’s desk. “What you can do for me, boy, is get the American Railway Passenger Car Company to deliver the blasted car they promised me, preferably before our guests start arriving. I thought you had the situation under control.”
“I had another wire last Friday. They’re still waiting on that special leather you ordered from Italy. They can’t finish installing the seats till it gets here.” Ethan slipped his spectacles back on and reached for a thick folder. “After the first delay, I made some inquiries. I can get the same quality leather from a supplier down in Texas. I wired them last week, and they’re ready to ship it to American Railway in Chicago as soon as you say the word.”
He slid the folder across the desk to show his boss the company’s advertisement and a leather sample, but Horace refused to even look at it.
“I want Italian leather.”
Ethan shoved the folder into his desk drawer and slammed it shut. People in Hades wanted ice water too, but that didn’t mean they got it. He rose and walked to the window, his hands fisted in his pockets. Down by the stables, Griff Rutledge and his stableboy were working with a couple of the new horses. Ethan fought the desire to grab a horse and disappear into the woods.
“Well?” Horace yelled. “What are you going to do about this, Ethan?”
“I’ve already told you what I would do, but you won’t listen.”
“What are we going to do come June when our guests start arriving at the depot in Hickory Ridge and there is no train car to bring them up the mountain?”
“The four carriages we ordered last year have arrived, and I’ve already put Silas to work training more drivers. We’ll have them meet the train and drive the guests up here.”
“Along that bone-rattling road?”
“I give up.” Ethan crossed the room and plucked his jacket from the back of his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business with the construction crew.”
“Don’t you walk away from me, Ethan. I haven’t—”
“Mr. Heyward?” O’Brien hurried in. “Pardon the interruption, but the chef says the menus are all set and we ought to go ahead and have them printed. I can take care of it tomorrow if you like.”
