by Jane Peart
“How can I help?”
“Well, miss, I ain’t much good putt in’ words together, and I jest hoped you’d help me word the thing right.”
For a minute Mindy started to hand the paper right back to him, but seeing his eager expression, she knew that was impossible. “I can try. Tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it out.”
“If we could kinda write it along the lines that fella did, I think that’d do jes’ fine.”
“Take a seat.” Mindy gestured to the chair on the opposite side of her desk. “Now, let’s see. We better put your age and a brief description of your appearance.” Here she stopped. She heard a choking sound from Byron’s desk and looked over to see him struggling not to laugh. She realized he had overheard the whole thing. She threw him a reproving glance, then went back to the man sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning forward. “Your name is?”
“Billy Mahony. And I’m thirty-two. Mebbe you better make that William—sounds more dignified like and mebbe we should say jest past thirty,” he suggested.
Mindy suppressed a smile. “Next, physical description. How tall are you, Billy?”
The interview went on without too many hitches. Billy wanted to list all the things he could offer a willing bride. House, furniture of her choosing, a horse and buggy, even one of those newfangled sewing machines.
“This will probably cost you a pretty penny,” Mindy cautioned him. “These big California papers charge you by the line or even by the word.”
“That don’t matter, miss. I got plenty. That’s what I want to make clear, I mean, to any young lady who might be reading this.”
Mindy wrote on. She read it over a couple of times to Billy, while he nodded and smiled. She made a few substitutions and changes, then copied it down in her neat handwriting and addressed an envelope to the PERSONALS column of the Sacramento newspaper.
“I’m much obliged to you, miss.” Billy said, taking it and carefully slipping it into his vest pocket. “Thank you.” He took a few steps backward, then, replacing his hat, made his way out of the building.
The door had hardly closed when Byron’s amused voice asked, “Going into fiction writing again, are you, McClaren?” Mindy whirled around and faced him. “What else could I do?”
“Well, nothing I guess. Do you think your reputation as Dixie Dillon has caught up with you?” He laughed. “All that nonsense about Billy’s appearance and character. Maybe you better try writing a romance novel.”
Mindy was defensive. “I tried to stick to facts. Billy is five-feet- ten and does have brown hair, and he said he was going to shave off his beard and just leave the mustache—”
“Then you don’t feel guilty giving some poor, unsuspecting woman an idealized picture of the man she might marry?”
“Since you were eavesdropping on the whole thing, you must have heard me say I thought they should carry on a long correspondence before Billy sends her a ticket to come to Coarse Gold.”
“And make that a round-trip ticket once she gets a good look at her intended.” Byron was getting a good chuckle over this incident. “Oh, well, love is blind as they say. I’ve seen a lot of people stumble into the wrong relationship because they can’t see the forest for the trees.”
Mindy tossed her head. “You’re full of proverbs, aren’t you?”
“Just wisdom gleaned from a long life and experience. I’ve just seen some very smart ladies make really foolish choices in men.”
Mindy glanced at the editor sharply. Was there a not so subtle meaning in what he was saying? And directed at her?
Byron turned back to the copy on his desk saying, “Well, there’s no guarantee in any relationship. None whatsoever. Doesn’t matter if its a long-distance one or when you see the person every day. You never can know anyone you care about completely.”
There was nothing to say to that. Byron’s words were true. She realized she didn’t know Wade, mainly because he didn’t allow her to know him. There was something hidden in him, something guarded. But that was part of his attraction. That mystery behind his eyes, his smile, his easy charm led her on, fed her interest, and made him fascinating.
About this time, a larger room next to Mindy’s at the boarding house became vacant and Mrs. Busby offered it to Mindy. “Thought it might be nice for you to have a little sitting room where you could entertain company once in awhile,” she said with a little twinkle in her eyes. “Gentlemen callers is fine if you leave the door to the hall ajar, that is.”
Mindy gave her a quick look. Nothing much escaped Mrs. Busby. Not only was her dining room the source of local gossip, but she kept an eye on Main Street as well. She probably hadn’t missed Wade’s comings and goings, nor Sheriff Taylor Bradford’s frequent visits, for that matter.
Amused at her landlady’s implications she did not supply her with any new information about her social life. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Busby, it would be nice to have a place to put my books, to read, and study more comfortably than down at the office when I have work to do.”
Mindy tried not to smile at the look of disappointment on the woman’s face, knowing her answer was not what she had in mind when she made the offer.
Mrs. Busby was not easily defeated and quickly retorted, “You do too much of that, my girl. You know what they say about all work and no play . . .”
“I’ll remember that,” Mindy assured her.
Once acquired, the little parlor did become a place Mindy appreciated, especially the next time Wade rode into town. It also presented a problem she should have anticipated, and it became the scene of a terrible quarrel between them. They had gone to a performance of a play put on by a traveling theatrical troupe. Entertainment in this remote town was rare, and the play was fully attended by most of the community. Coarse Gold boasted no theatre, so the town hall was temporarily transformed into one. The play itself was an appalling melodrama, the actors clumsy and unsure of their lines. Frequent mishaps on stage interrupted the progress of the play. Several loud bangs and crashes from the wings caused the audience to wonder what was happening backstage maybe was more interesting than what was on the stage.
For Mindy, the awkward performance did not matter. Although she watched the action and heard the words of the actors, she was too conscious of Wade sitting beside her to notice anything else. If she had been asked to recount the plot or write a review of the play, she would have found it impossible.
During the first two acts she and Wade exchanged glances of amusement at some of the many ludicrous mistakes and stumbling actors. Finally, at intermission, Wade whispered, “I can’t take any more. Let’s leave.”
They slipped out the side entrance and walked back toward Mrs. Busby’s. The night air was dry and very cold; snow had lain on the ground since Christmas and their feet crunched on the icy surface. They let themselves in the door of the boarding house. It was unusually quiet because most of the roomers were attending the play. The only person present was the Chinese cook, sleeping in a chair in the pantry way between the kitchen and dining room. They tiptoed past and went into Mindy’s newly acquired parlor.
Wade glanced around approvingly, saying with satisfaction. “Now this is more like it.” Then striking a theatrical pose he declared dramatically, “Alone at last.” He caught both Mindy’s hands, twirled her around a couple of times, then pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her.
It had been weeks since they had been together, and at first Mindy returned his kisses ardently. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the tender demand of his mouth on hers. Vaguely recalling Mrs. Busby’s forthright admonition that the parlor door be left ajar when Mindy received her “gentleman callers,” she slowly opened her eyes and saw Wade had closed the door behind them.
She pushed gently back. “Wade, listen—”
But he wasn’t listening. He was kissing her again.
“Wade,” she said again, “we can’t do this—”
“Why not? Don’t be ridiculous, Mindy. T
he house is empty. No one’s here.” He held her tighter so she couldn’t break away or move. “Let me stay,” he said urgently. “No one will be any the wiser.”
For the first time in her life, Mindy felt the full impact of temptation. The desire of the moment seemed to wipe out the possibility of regret. Wade drew her closer, kissing her with undisguised intensity. The frightening probability of where this was leading broke into her consciousness. With all her strength, Mindy struggled to free herself and stumbled back from him. She pressed both hands against her mouth, still warm from his kisses. Her breath was shallow, “No, Wade, no.”
He looked at her with an expression of disbelief, then disgust. “I thought you were a woman who didn’t believe in convention. I believed you were your own person. A daring woman who didn’t let others lay down stupid laws of society. Now, I see I was wrong. I guess it was all words, like some of the stuff you write about.”
Furious at his indictment Mindy retorted. “This has nothing to do with who I am . . . or maybe, everything to do with who I am.”
His mouth twisted. “I said I was wrong, Mindy. About you and what you wanted. At least, I’ll take you at your word.” He walked over to the door, yanked it open. “Does this satisfy your puritan soul? I don’t play games, Mindy. I play what’s on the table. Maybe we’re dealing out of two separate decks.” His hand turned the knob. “But I’m not sure. I think you wanted me as much as I want you. You just don’t have the courage to take a chance that it might be real.” He reached for his hat he’d laid on the table when they entered, then made her a slight bow and walked out. Mindy heard his boots on the uncarpeted hallway and a few seconds later the slam of the front door.
She began to shiver. She sank into the nearest chair. She didn’t know how long she remained there, frozen, trapped in her tumultuous emotion. Wade had left angrier than she had ever seen him. She had lost him, she was sure of that. She had seen contempt in his eyes, and his words had stung like a whip on bare flesh. Deepening her anguish was the knowledge that she loved him. But how close she had come to giving in to him and her own desire. She buried her face in her hands, shuddering.
A fragment of Scripture came into her mind, just a few words floating out of context. She went to her bookcase and pulled out the New Testament that she had recently shelved there. It pricked her conscience as she guiltily realized how little of it she had read recently. She thumbed through the pages until memory directed her to 1 Corinthians 10:13, “God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will make the way of escape, that you may be able to bear it.”
Yes, thank God, and she had applied James 4:7 as well: “Resist the devil and he will flee.” God had provided the strength to resist. As badly as her heart was aching, Mindy knew she should be thankful she had avoided worse.
The following day Mindy learned Wade had taken his two horses and left town. Without a good-bye. Why should that surprise her? Why should she have expected one? His bitterly spoken summation of their relationship came back to her. Maybe, they were dealing out of two separate decks. No matter what they felt, neither one would change. She couldn’t step over the line that too many years had forged in her of what was morally right or wrong. And for the dozenth time Mindy reminded herself how little she actually knew about him, his background, his beliefs, his life guidelines.
Mindy knew for her own sake she should put Wade Carrigan out of her mind. With discipline that could be done. It wouldn’t be so easy to put him out of her heart.
Again, she plunged into her duties at the paper, trying to drown her sorrow with work as Byron tried to drown his with drink. He had fallen off the wagon again, she noticed. But she was too preoccupied with her own heartbreak to try to keep him from making frequent trips to the various saloons. Even during working hours, he would make some excuse and leave, returning visibly unsteady.
Since she had gotten to know Byron, and had learned to recognize the signs that he’d slipped, Mindy had devised a ploy to distract him. She engaged him in conversation, plying him with questions about the business and getting him off on some tangent, like his reminiscences of some sensational story he had covered in the past. But somehow it seemed too great an effort to attempt now. How could she hope to help someone else with a problem when she was having such trouble getting a handle on her own? This was a decision Mindy was soon to regret.
Chapter 19
Startled awake by an incessant banging on her door, Mindy tossed the covers aside and got out of bed, grabbing her dressing gown as she ran barefoot to the door.
A pale, shuddering Timmy, eyes wide with shock, stood in the shadowy hallway. “Oh, miss, come—it’s Mr. Karr, and oh, ma’am, I’m afraid he’s took bad—”
Mindy knew there was no time to waste. She felt a quivering certainty within that no matter how much she hurried it was already too late. “Wait a minute, until I get on my coat and shoes,” she told him. She flung open the wardrobe, pulled out her coat, put it on over her nightgown, slung a shawl over her head and shoulders, and shoved her feet into her boots. She grabbed Timmy’s arm as she passed him. “Come on,” she said, and they ran down the hall to the front door.
Outside it was bitter cold. “Where is he?” Mindy demanded.
Timmy pointed in the direction of the Golden Slipper and their heads bent against the knife-blade wind as they hurried toward the saloon.
“In there,” Timmy panted and dashed past into the narrow passage between the buildings.
Mindy was fast behind him. The sight that met her eyes hit her like a blow. Slumped against the side of the building was Byron’s body. She halted, swayed, steadied herself by putting one hand on the wall, then ran to his side. She knelt down on the muddy ground, softened by snow. She put both hands on either side of Byron’s face and tried to raise his head. It fell stiffly forward. She slid one hand down his cheek to his neck and felt for a pulse. There was none. She stifled a scream. A cutting wind whistled through the alley, slicing into her, and she shivered. In a hoarse voice she said, “Timmy, run for Dr. MacAvey.”
“But, miss, shouldn’t we try to move him? Take him home. I done it before when he was like this.”
“It’s no use, Timmy.” Mindy swallowed over the painful lump in her throat. “He’s . . . Mr. Karr’s dead.”
A terrified expression came over the boy’s face. Fear filled his eyes. “He can’t be. He’s jest out. I seen him like this many times. We jest gotta get him to bed—”
“I’m sorry, Timmy. Not this time.” Mindy’s voice broke. She realized Byron was Timmy’s only anchor in his hazardous existence—a father figure for an orphan boy. Without the editor he would have no one. “Now, go. We’ll have to have help.” She did not want to say the body was already stiffening. She had no idea how long Byron had been dead. Tears ran down Timmy’s freckled cheeks. He swiped his nose with the back of his hand and got up from the crouched position beside her.
“Hurry now,” Mindy urged gently.
She watched as the boy started walking back toward Main Street, then break into a run. She turned back to the man she had come to know, respect, and admire in so short a time. What a sad ending for this brilliant man. His eyes were already closed. All she could do was to keep vigil until someone else arrived. She thought of the euphemisms her aunts used when someone died. They never came right out and said someone was dead. They either “passed away” or “crossed over” or, if it was a known relative or church member, “gone to be with Jesus.” She didn’t really know Byron’s spiritual status. Although he quoted broadly from Scripture, she didn’t think he attended any church. But kneeling there in the windy corridor between the two saloons, Mindy ardently hoped Byron had “gone to be with Jesus.”
It was a raw March day with a wind that cut cruelly as they carried Byron Karr’s plain wooden coffin up to the cemetery. Mindy followed, thinking how sad it was this man had died so far from home with neither kith nor kin to mourn him. Mindy knew h
e had a sister in Pennsylvania, and she remembered vaguely the very courteous nephew she had met the first day she had arrived. But Byron never talked much about himself. If he had ever been married she had no knowledge. Strangely, she felt she knew so many things about him but nothing much about his life before he came to Coarse Gold. That he knew the printing business and had a way with words was obvious. From things he had said inadvertently Mindy knew he had worked at several big-city newspapers back east.
His particular kindness to the “tramp printers” who came occasionally looking for a day’s work was a clue that he had some kind of affinity for them. Maybe, sometime, somewhere he too had been down on his luck and in need of a day’s pay. Whatever the reason, with the exception of her own father, Byron Karr had been the kindest man she had ever known. Beneath that gruff exterior lay a soft heart. Since his death she had heard countless stories from people he had helped. Miners had come in to tell of “grubstakes” he had replenished for them; a widow left penniless had been given stage fare to get back home. Mindy wished she could print them along with his obituary, which seemed sketchy to say the least, since she knew so little about the editor. Of course, she couldn’t. Many of the stories were too private. Byron would hate having his generosity known, much less publicized.
Certainly Mindy had been the recipient of more subtle largesse. He had patiently taught her invaluable things about the newspaper business that only come with long experience. The only thing that worried her was that she may have been too tolerant about his drinking. Could she have done more to prevent his problem instead of looking the other way? She thought of the times on Thursdays, when the paper had been put to bed and she was sitting at her desk, checking her copy, and heard the slide of the bottom desk drawer being opened. That’s where he kept his bottle. Could she have done anything? Or does each person have to fight his own demons? She had no idea what Byron was battling to keep at bay.
