by Jane Peart
“Uh-huh.” Byron’s eyes were amused, “So what is it this time, McClaren?”
“Mrs. Busby told me there’s a really old lady, Bedelia Warren, who as a child came west with her family on a wagon train. They got caught by weather before the Rockies and decided to camp near there instead of going on, to wait until spring to cross the mountains. Well, it seems they were ambushed by Apaches and the little girl was kidnapped.” She paused. “She was held hostage but eventually escaped and made her way back. A hazardous adventure. That’s the story I’d like to write. Mrs. Busby says only a few people know about it. It would make a great feature for the paper. I also think it might sell to one of the eastern periodicals. They are always interested in anything western. And a first-person account of such a dramatic event . . . well, it would be—”
“You would write it, of course, not just take down her words?”
“Yes, I would. The way I did those two pieces I showed you from my Dixie Dillon column. ‘Bedelia Warren as told to I. Howard McClaren.’” She waited, “So what do you think?”
“Great idea. Do it! We’ll print it.”
“Thanks, Byron, thank you.” Mindy jumped up and was almost tempted to give him a hug, but he was scowling as if he anticipated such a move, so she resisted.
Bedelia Warren’s story was a success. Everyone commented on it when it appeared in the Gazette. Mrs. Warren became the recipient of much adulation, visits, gifts of food and flowers, in admiration for her bravery. Much to Mindy’s delight, the old lady thoroughly enjoyed her new celebrity.
Byron was pleased, she could tell. More and more he treated her as his peer. He was unstinting in his praise when he liked something she’d written. He left books and notes on her desk and encouraged her by pointing out possible subjects for future columns. Often, when she was about to leave for the day, he would call her over to his desk to share something he’d read or thought she’d find interesting.
Since he was currently on the wagon, Mindy decided that staying late, drinking mug after mug of coffee together, listening to his stories of his days on a big city daily newspaper, might be helpful in keeping him out of the local saloons. Besides she was learning a great deal about the newspaper business from him. She also knew Byron was a terribly lonely person. Why else would he be in this far away desert town alone? What had he left behind? From his stories, she gathered he once held a top job on an important eastern newspaper. He never bragged about it, but it was not hard to tell he had covered some of the biggest stories of the last fifteen years.
Busy with her work Mindy managed to think less about the unhappy ending to her short romance with Wade Carrigan.
November was bleak and blustery. Cold, freezing winds and rain pelted the town. Everyone complained how miserable the weather was. One day Timmy, drenched to the bone, came back from the post office with the mail. He stood at the door dripping water, wrung out his cap, and shook back his hair from his freckled face. Mindy poured him a cup of steaming coffee and handed it to him as he dumped her mail on her desk.
“Better take your boots off and hang your jacket near the stove to dry out,” she suggested as she looked through the sheaf of letters. Then, one letter with a familiar handwriting caught her eye. The postmark was Woodhaven. She was aware that Timmy had asked her something and that she answered, not knowing what either the question or answer was. She sat down and opened the letter—from Judson.
Dear Mindy,
Don’t be mad, but I begged your Aunt Jen for your address. She was hard to persuade. She said, “If Mindy wanted you to have it, she’d have given it to you.” That’s true, but it doesn’t make it any easier to take. I don’t have your way with words, but what I’m writing comes from the heart. Mindy, I’m sorry how everything turned out for us. I didn’t want it to end. I still love you, and I wish things could have been different.
I’m taking the chance that maybe you’ve thought things over, and maybe—just maybe—you’re sorry too. If you’ve changed your mind, I would come to Colorado and bring you home, where you belong and where things would work out. If we’d both try, I think they would. I know I would really try to understand about your writing. Why not give it a second chance? Always yours, Judson
Mindy put the single page back in its envelope. It was funny that this letter should reach her now. A few weeks ago when she was feeling so downhearted over Wade Carrigan, before she got her second wind with the writing of the Bedelia Warren story, Judson’s appeal might have moved her. She knew he was sincere. But she also knew he really hadn’t changed his attitude about her being a journalist. She could read between the lines. He hoped that if she came back to Woodhaven, gradually her ambition would fade. Once married, Judson must believe, their home and, eventually perhaps, their children would be her priority.
Slowly, Mindy tore the letter into tiny pieces and tossed them into the big wastepaper basket by her desk. There was no point in answering it. That part of her life was over. Mindy drew a blank piece of paper from her IN basket and began to compose a piece for the special Thanksgiving Day edition.
After a hectic afternoon putting the paper to bed, an especially frantic time for everyone due to the flood of ads received at the eleventh hour, Mindy and Byron were sharing a cup of coffee and waiting for the first paper off the press so they could see the results of all their hard work.
Suddenly, Mindy noticed Byron’s expression change. She turned to follow the direction he was looking and saw Taylor come into the building, his right arm in a sling. The brawny lawman looked unusually pale and gaunt.
“What happened to you?” Byron asked, setting down his mug. Mindy gasped, “Taylor, come sit down.”
“Shoot-out over at Silver Creek,” Taylor said as he walked over to Byron and slumped down in the chair opposite his cluttered desk. “Bank robbery. Gang of about four. I was just ridin’ through when it happened. I saw them coming out of the bank. They was caught as red-handed as you could want, carrying bags of money right out there in broad daylight. Soon as I saw what was going on, I drew my gun and hollered, ‘Halt!’ They run for their horses and started mountin’. I aimed and started shootin’—I knowed I got one in the leg for he let out a yell and grabbed his thigh. His horse wheeled around but he hung onto the bridle and pulled hisself up by the reins. I shot again but one of his partners turned, saw me, and shot. Hit my gun arm. Bullet lodged right above my wrist and shattered the bone so’s I dropped my gun. I’d ’ve given chase otherwise, but they gave their horses their heads and were off. The local deputy came piling out of the store ’crost the street, wavin’ his pistol and shootin’ every whichaway, but it didn’t do no good. Durned if they didn’t get away.” He shook his head disconsolately. “Cleaned out the bank. The stage had just delivered the payroll for the mine.”
“Any idea who they were?” asked Byron eager for more details so he could write it up for page one, next edition. Or maybe even for an EXTRA if the story warranted.
“Not for sure. But I got a good enough idea. There’s been a rash of bank robberies. Same outfit. Bad bunch, but mighty clever. This didn’t seem like their usual operation. They’re pretty smooth. Come in like a customer, well-dressed, nice mannered, then slip a note to the teller, and ’fore anyone knows it, they’ve bagged the money and made off. Don’t even fire a shot. Doggone it—’scuse me, Miss Mindy.” Taylor nodded in her direction. “I’d sure have liked to nab ’em, bring ’em in. They’re a menace to the hardworking folks around here. Those miners whose pay they got work long and hard and to be cheated out of it—”
“Well, four against one. You couldn’t have fought them all,” Byron commented.
“Taylor, you might have been killed,” added Mindy.
“Nah,” Taylor lifted his bandaged arm. “No way. I could’ve took at least two of them ’fore the others made off if I hadn’t been taken by surprise. I should’ve protected myself better.” He sighed heavily. “But anyway that one fella was bleedin’ like a stuck pig, left a trail of blo
od—he’ll have to stop have that leg fixed somewhere by some doctor or he’ll lose it.”
Her eyes full of admiration Mindy said, “I think you were very brave, Taylor.”
Taylor flushed and looked embarrassed but pleased.
“Well, let’s all go over to Mrs. Busby’s and have a good dinner while Taylor tells us more about his adventure,” suggested Byron. He bent and dragged a big, shabby umbrella from under his desk. “What do you say?”
“Sounds good to me.” Taylor looked hopefully at Mindy who also agreed.
When Mrs. Busby saw Taylor’s sling, she was all concern and sympathy. She gave them her best table and served them buffalo steaks, roasted potatoes and turnips, and carrots in a rich gravy. She hovered over them until she assured herself that three of her favorite people were well fed and enjoying everything. Mindy had to cut Taylor’s meat for him, which amused Byron and tickled Taylor no end.
After Mrs. Busby brought them custard pie and Byron had polished off his, he stood up, “I’m going to leave you two young people now, got to take care of a few things. Thanks for the good story, Taylor. When we’ve got it ready to set, come by and check all the facts. The Gazette’s motto is ‘The truth, nothing but the truth,’ in its articles.”
Left by themselves, Taylor looked uncomfortable. “I hope he don’t make it sound like one of them wild western tales.”
“He won’t. Byron’s a professional. Sticks strictly to facts. Anyway, the truth is you are a hero, Taylor. People should know what a brave, courageous lawman they have here.”
Taylor smiled. Coming from Mindy those words meant a great deal. Then he frowned. “It makes me madder than a hornet when outlaws feed on other people’s lives and work like that. They’re smart enough to figger out ways to cheat and steal, why can’t they use the same brains to earn an honest living?”
Mindy shrugged. “The world’s made up of a lot of different kinds. There’s no accounting for it.”
“Well, as soon as my arm’s healed, I’m goin’ after them. I seen their faces, two of them anyway. They outsmarted themselves this time by not wearing masks or bandanas tied around their faces like most thieves do. I got a good look at the one I shot and the fella who shot me. The wounded one couldn’t have got too far with that leg, had to stop somewhere, hole up until it’s better.” Taylor’s mouth tightened determinedly. “I mean it, Mindy, I’m going to get that fella and his whole gang, bring ’em to justice.”
They finished their coffee, and Taylor walked to Mindy’s room door with her.
“Thanks for . . .” He reddened and smiled sheepishly. “. . . cuttin’ my steak for me.”
“The least I could do for a real hero. Well, try to get some rest and not dream about catching bank robbers.”
“I can think of a whole lot of nicer things to dream about.” He looked down at her. She was such a pretty little thing, he’d sure like to kiss her goodnight but . . .
“Goodnight, Taylor. Remember to come by the newspaper and check Byron’s story before we go to press.”
Taylor stood outside for a minute after Mindy had gone in and closed the door. He wished he’d had the gumption to at least ask her to go to the church social with him Sunday night.
Maybe he’d get the chance when he stopped by the paper tomorrow.
Chapter 17
In December, Mindy worried that she might feel terribly blue on her first Christmas so far from home. But things were so busy at the paper that she hardly had time to be sad. They were putting out two additional pages of advertising by local businesses, as well as for announcements of special holiday events from schools, churches, and social clubs. One of the biggest events of the season would be a community party after the Christmas program at the town hall.
Early in the month a large package arrived for Mindy from North Carolina. When she went to the train station to pick it up, she saw it was a little worse for wear after its long journey. Although the words “DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS DAY” were clearly printed on top, Mindy undid the outer wrapping, which was already quite tattered. She calculated the time difference between North Carolina and Colorado and decided she would be justified in opening her presents on eastern time.
Her conscience fought with her curiosity—and lost. So two days before Christmas Mindy opened the rest of the box. A sweet scent rose from one small, square box. A tag, written in her mother’s fine Spencerian handwriting, identified it as “Roses from a Southern Garden.” She was sure it contained potpourri, which her mother was an expert in making. It would be lovely to scatter the dried rose petals in her bureau drawer among her camisoles, chemises, and petticoats. The present from Farell was flat and square. His attached letter confirmed what she had suspected. A hand-bound book of his poetry:
These are my newest poems. Inspiration is all around me here in this quiet, peaceful setting. I am sitting outside, a gentle wind blows the leafy branches overhead, and a bird is singing in the far meadow. My pen seems to flow more easily in these harmonious surroundings. The only thing that would make it complete is if you were here to listen to my poetry. I hope you will enjoy these and try to imagine the scene in which they were written.
Ever your devoted brother,
Farell
Mindy could not help shedding a few tears. She missed her brother—the hours spent together, confiding her heart and listening to him read his poetry. Now someone else, Miss Louella Asbury, Farell’s new step-sister, was doing this with him. Grateful as she was that Farell had found such a sympathetic companion, she also felt a wee bit envious.
The other present from her mother was a needlepoint pillow containing crushed Balsam needles. It gave off the piney scent of the woods where the Asbury farm was located. Her mother had stitched russet pinecones on a dark green background and the words “Sweet Dreams” on the cover.
She had several other packages to open. One, from Tom and Emily, contained a picture of the three of them with their baby, Mindy’s little niece, Melvina, whom she had never seen. Her brother Eph, still at the army post in Florida, sent an Indian woven sweetgrass basket she could use for sewing and odds and ends. Two more packages came from Woodhaven. First she opened the one from her favorite Aunt Sassy, a skilled needlewoman. It was a red velvet vest exquisitely embroidered with vines and leaves and tiny flowers.
The other gift was from Aunt Jen, a lovely “fascinator” knitted of delicate white wool. The very thing for wearing over her hair on cold evenings. As she drew it from the box and shook it out to try it on, an envelope fell out from the folds. Mindy picked it up and slit it open. Enclosed was a short note and a folded newspaper clipping. “Thought you’d be interested to see this.” Aunt Jen had written on the margin. “TWO LOCAL FAMILIES JOINED IN MARRIAGE,” the headline read. “The wedding of Anne Willoughby and Judson Powell took place in Grace Presbyterian Church on November 12th, a reception was held at the groom’s parents’ home—” Mindy skimmed the rest of the account.
Mindy drew a long breath. Judson married. Of course, Anne Willoughby had always fancied him. Anne had always been jealous that he so obviously preferred Mindy. Well, I had my chance, Mindy thought. She recalled Judson’s letter, begging her to come home and offering to bring her back home just a short time ago. Well, broken hearts heal faster than people think.
Mindy crumpled up the clipping. It wasn’t regret she felt, just the closing of one more chapter of her life back east. Now, she had a whole new life out here. She meant to enjoy it and Christmas. As she got dressed to attend the Christmas program and the community party that followed, Mindy felt an odd excitement. Although she was expected to do write-ups on both events for the Gazette, she felt the same kind of anticipation she used to have getting ready for a social event in Woodhaven. The new red-velvet vest, worn with a white ruffled blouse and a flared black taffeta skirt, was the perfect outfit for a holiday party. Instead of pulling her hair back into its usual utilitarian knot, Mindy had brushed it up, caught it with a marquisette comb, then let it fall
in a swirl of waves to her shoulders. She wound the pretty fascinator over her head and surveyed the effect in the mirror with satisfaction.
It was only a short walk from the boarding house to town hall, but because it had snowed the day before, she pulled on sturdy boots. She carried along dancing shoes for later. Even though she was officially “on assignment,” Taylor had made her promise to save some dances for him. His arm was much improved although still stiff and awkward.
As she came out into the dark evening, Mindy looked up into the sky, where thousands of stars seemed to sparkle. The snow covering the ground seemed to reflect the light shining out from the windows of houses along the way.
Close to the town hall she heard voices singing “Joy to the World Various groups were on the program and must be rehearsing in the basement rooms.
Laughter and greetings floated on the crisply cold air as people, coming from all directions, met at the bottom of the town hall steps. They chatted while stomping their boots of snow before entering the building.
A magnificent tree was set upon the platform where the city council usually sat. School children had done most of the decorations. Strings of popcorn and red and green paper chains mingled with festoons of bright cranberry beads, striped peppermint candy canes, gilt angels, and silver stars. From interviewing the decorating chairwoman, Mindy found out that lighted candles on the branches had been considered but rejected. The fire marshal had pronounced the danger of fire too hazardous in a crowded place. Instead, tall red tapers had been placed on each window sill along both sides of the hall and burned brightly, giving both scent and glowing light to the otherwise cavernous interior.
A pianist and two of the musicians who played so riotously for the Harvest Dance, now looking starched and solemn in this setting, provided the musical background for the community carols sung with enthusiasm if not in perfect harmony. The Reverend Thompson took center stage, ascending the steps with as much authority and dignity as he usually did in the pulpit. The sounds of neighbors greeting neighbors and the shrill exclamations of excited children gradually hushed. He waited until the hall was quiet, then he greeted everyone with his usual, “Praise the Lord. I’ll be taking my text from the gospel of Luke.” He began to read, “‘And it came to pass, in those days, a decree went out from Caesar that the whole world should be enrolled . . .’”
