by Jane Peart
She looked at the sky. Low clouds hovered. Only a few hardy souls had accompanied the cortege up the hill. It was a week day and most people had to open their shops, attend to their chores, go about the regular business of the living.
Because Byron had not been a church member there was some consternation among those who knew him as to what kind of funeral service there would be. Mr. Proctor, the undertaker, was, of course, right on hand to offer all sorts of suggestions. But Mindy knew Byron would have no interest in one of those. In fact, she recalled his amusement to the ad for the funeral home’s “pre-planned programs.”
In the end, Mindy decided that she would write a personal farewell to be read at the gravesite, and the minister could add whatever Scripture would be appropriate. She worked long and hard over it, trying to say what was in her heart without being overly sentimental or sorrowful. Byron would have hated flowery language. She could almost hear him say, “Just tell the truth and stick to the facts.” So she tried to keep it short, crisp, and yet do proper honor to the man of whom she had become so fond. She had never heard him take the Lord’s name in vain, no matter what the provocation, and there were plenty of times at the Gazette when one could find an excuse to vent frustrations. She had never heard him pass an unkind remark about anyone, even if one of the advertisers had pulled their ad or someone had given him a tongue lashing over an editorial with which they disagreed. Finally, after several tries, Mindy wrote a single sentence. Now, as she listened to the husky voice of the minister read the words she had chosen for him to read over the grave, she prayed that Byron would be pleased: “Let it be said of him that he reverenced God and loved his fellow man. Well done, good and faithful servant, enter into the rest that is eternal.”
Afterward Mindy thanked the minister. She spoke to the others who had also seen Byron to his final repose. Then, along with Timmy, Pete, Dr. MacAvey, and Taylor Bradford, she walked back to town. Mindy’s heart felt heavy. She didn’t like leaving Byron alone on that windy hill.
When they reached Main Street, Taylor touched Mindy’s arm sympathetically. “What are you going to do now?”
“Go to the office.”
“I mean . . . now that Karr’s gone, will the Gazette keep publishing?”
Actually, that was the first time Mindy had had a chance to ask that question herself. She had been too stunned with grief, making arrangements, sending a telegram to Byron’s sister, and generally seeing to things. She stared at Taylor.
“This is Tuesday. We’ve got a paper to get out Thursday.” She shrugged. “After that, I don’t know.”
“I just wondered—I mean, I don’t want you to leave Coarse Gold.”
Mindy smiled wanly. “I’m not. Not any time soon anyway.”
She let herself into the newspaper building. It seemed cold, hollow. Byron had been such a presence there, the hub of the wheel around which everything revolved. Without him there was a huge empty space.
She looked over at his scarred roll-top desk. It had been left open, still cluttered with paper, an open dictionary, and his coffee mug. The tears that had somehow been frozen within her, came now.
Her mind echoed Taylor’s question. What now? How would the paper go on? Would it be for sale? Would someone else come in as editor? Mindy doubted if Byron had made any provision in case of his death.
Chapter 20
The paper came out on time as usual that Thursday. Mindy had written a glowing eulogy to the late editor, and advertisers had voluntarily come forth with memorial ads for the man who had been more than a friend, “a pillar of the small community”—a phrase many of them used in their space. Mindy felt gratified that in spite of his flaws—failings that had been visible to all—Byron had left a fine legacy, one of which his family could be proud.
It seemed Byron’s only immediate family was a sister, Mrs. Rogers, whose name and address Mindy found on letters in Byron’s desk. In response to the telegram Mindy had sent informing her of her brother’s death, Mrs. Rogers wrote a note addressed to I. Howard McClaren. “Dear Sir,” it began,
Thank you for your kind message concerning my brother Byron Karr’s untimely death. He often spoke of his “smart, young assistant editor,” and I’m sure you did everything possible to see he had a dignified funeral and Christian burial. As to his personal belongings, my thought at the moment is to contact my son, who is at present on business in California. I will suggest he change his plans to travel back to Pennsylvania and come to Coarse Gold instead. I trust he can make the decisions of what I might want of my brother’s personal belongings and make disposition of the remainder. Whatever he selects could be packed and shipped here.
Thank you again for your concern and condolences.
Very gratefully,
Mary Alice Rogers
Three weeks went by with nothing settled about the future of the Gazette, and no will was located. Mindy was reluctant to go to Byron’s cottage and search. The local lawyer declared Byron had never consulted him about making out a will.
In the meantime Mindy, Pete, and Timmy turned out two more editions of the Gazette. It was immense pressure and an exhausting strain. Mindy wrote all the articles and helped in the rest of the chores of getting out the paper every week.
Then, three weeks after Byron’s death, all of the questions about the fate and future of the Gazette were unexpectedly answered. She received a notice to appear at the office of the lawyer Elton Horn for the reading of Byron Karr’s will. Elton Horn’s office was next door to the undertaker’s, which struck Mindy as oddly lugubrious. It was dark and dingy and had an appropriate gloomy air for the kind of professional transactions that must take place within its walls.
The lawyer was a scrawny man, with round shoulders under a dark frock coat. He had a sallow complexion, a short graying beard and deep-set eyes circled darkly as though he got little sleep.
He cleared his throat ponderously after he had ceremoniously bade Mindy to sit down. Then he explained why he had summoned her. It seems that Byron had filed a will in Boulder, and upon the notification of his death, the lawyers who had witnessed the signing contacted Elton Horn, the local lawyer, and sent him a copy.
Mr. Horn said this with an injured air, as though he felt rejected to handle the matter right here in Coarse Gold. Since nothing ever stayed a secret in this small town, Mindy wondered if possibly Byron had taken the precaution not to have the details of his will made common knowledge until after his demise.
Then, with a great show of deliberateness Mr. Horn took out a large portfolio, opened it, and in a voice more like he was about to deliver a court speech than read a will, began. “I, Byron Karr, being of sound mind do declare this to be my last will and testament . . .”
An hour later Mindy walked out of the dim office into the noon sunlight momentarily blinded by the dazzling brightness. She was shocked, surprised, overwhelmed and thrilled. Byron had left the paper and his house to her! The house was for her “to live in, sell or rent as she decided” the will stipulated. These bequests changed everything.
In the past few weeks she had had fleeting thoughts of returning to Woodhaven or even traveling to North Carolina to join her mother and brother. Now all those thoughts disappeared from her mind. She was the owner of the Roaring River Gazette. The editor. She had a career, a future, a life here in Coarse Gold. It was something that had not even been in her wildest dreams. But Byron had known it. This was his gift to her.
Mindy walked up on the hillside cemetery. There was only a simple wooden cross to mark the place where they had laid Byron. Only his name was carved on it. No one seemed to know the date or place of his birth. Mindy stood absolutely still as she looked at it, remembering the day she had first met him. He had trusted her, had faith in her, believed in her. By leaving the paper to her he had passed the torch so that the things he valued could go on.
It had all happened so fast the past few weeks, Mindy had not had enough time to absorb the reality of it all. She had dreamed of
becoming a reporter and now she was an editor. Yet her belief that everyone has a purpose, that God has a definite plan for each life, suggested to her that this had been the unknown reason she had always felt so restless. Nothing had really satisfied or fulfilled her before. The more she thought about this, Mindy felt a confirmation. This was why she had come to Colorado—not on a whim or a reckless impulse, but because it was her destiny.
Mindy closed her eyes, bent her head into her clasped hands, and prayed the most sincere prayer of her life. A prayer of thanksgiving for who she was and for guidance of how she should use her talents. The influence of the position of editor was daunting, but with God’s help Mindy trusted she would use it wisely.
Chapter 21
One afternoon a few weeks later, Mindy was finishing up at her desk when the newspaper office door opened and a man entered. He stood on the threshold for a minute, glancing around as if looking for someone. Mindy raised her head and asked, “Yes? Something I can do for you?”
“I hope so. I’m looking for I. H. McClaren.”
Mindy studied him for a moment before answering. He was of average height, neatly dressed in eastern looking clothes. He had removed his hat and with one hand smoothed back thick, wavy, light brown hair. He took a few steps forward coming to stand directly in front of her desk so she had a better view of him. He was young, about thirty, clean-shaven with well-formed features and a pleasant expression. There was something vaguely familiar about him but she could not place him. At the same time he was regarding her with keen interest.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, “I’m Byron’s nephew. We met briefly, but it’s been a long time ago, over a year.”
Mindy remembered her first day in Coarse Gold. Byron had gone to see his nephew off on the train, and she had been introduced to him at the station. Before that there had been a brief encounter at the hotel. He had held the door open for her. “Of course. I’m sorry. It has been a long time and so much has happened—” She couldn’t help but wonder whether he knew that Byron had left the Gazette to her. Had he come to take it over himself? For an awful moment, Mindy thought about how she could explain things if that was his intention. She swallowed and gestured to the chair beside her desk. “Please, sit down. I’m so sorry about your uncle. He was a wonderful man and a good friend.”
“Thank you.” He took a seat, still regarding her intently and with some curiosity. “My mother’s letter just caught up with me. I’ve been traveling throughout California, and it was only when I got back to my hotel in Sacramento that I found out about Uncle Byron’s death.”
“Yes, it was very sudden and unexpected,” Mindy said, wondering if she should leave out the details.
“At my mother’s request I changed my ticket and came here as soon as I concluded my business. She wanted me to go through my uncle’s belongings and make some decisions about their disposal. Of course, there may be a few mementos she would like that are of sentimental value. He was her older brother, her only brother, and although they had not seen each other in several years, Mother loved him dearly, in spite of—” He broke off, then said, “My mother did not always approve of—well, they did have some differences as all families do.”
“I have the keys to Byron’s little house. As you know, he left that to me in his will as well,” said Mindy. “I’ll give them to you so that you can find whatever you want. You may even be able to make arrangements with the station manager to have them packed and shipped.”
“A good idea. Thank you—” He paused, “I’m sorry I don’t know your name, I’m afraid.”
“McClaren,” she supplied. “And yours?”
“I beg your pardon, I should have introduced myself. I’m Lawrence Day.” His smile broadened revealing excellent teeth. “Could you possibly be Mindy? Mother just said she had received a letter from I. H. McClaren. She assumed it was a man but—I should have guessed right away. Uncle wrote us so much about ‘Mindy.’”
“Are you aware that in his will your uncle left the paper to me?” Mindy thought that perhaps a copy of the will had been sent to Byron’s sister, Mr. Day’s mother. Again, she wondered whether Byron’s nephew might want to contest the will and take over the newspaper. That suspicion made her cautious. He looked perfectly amiable, however, not as though he had come ready to do battle for an inheritance. “No, I didn’t know that—though he wrote me that he had a great new assistant editor. I know he must have felt you were competent.”
“Even though it’s considered to be an unusual position for a woman to fill?”
He smiled. “Maybe, back east they still feel that way. But I’ve discovered out west that women hold all sorts of jobs—run businesses, own department stores and restaurants, have many positions and do them well. In some cases, better than men.”
Mindy looked at him with surprise. “That’s a very enlightened attitude.”
“I hope so. The world is changing fast, and out west you see it firsthand. I like to keep up with the times.”
“Byron and I worked together for nearly a year before his death. I didn’t know he was ill. I saw he was slowing down but thought it was mostly—” She cut her sentence short. A shadow passed over the nephew’s face—regret, compassion? Then he sighed, “It was only a matter of time. I think we all knew that when he came west. You see, my uncle suffered a tragic loss.” He paused and lifted his eyebrows. “Perhaps, you didn’t know about it. He never looked for sympathy or tried to gain it. He lost his wife and child in a fire and after that . . . well, he was never the same. He came out here to forget, to try to build a new life, but—”
“He helped me so much,” Mindy said. “He taught me the ropes of running a newspaper. He was a very kind man.”
Lawrence Day saw Mindy’s blue eyes brighten with tears, and he was struck by this show of emotion. Evidently this young woman cared deeply about his uncle whom he himself hardly knew. He wished he had known him better.
“Yes, he was. I was always very fond of him. My own father died when I was just a little boy and although I had a great stepfather, Uncle Byron was special.” He stopped for a minute, “Well, I’m sure you’re busy, Miss McClaren, so I’d better get on with my mission. I leave tomorrow on the noon train.” He took the keys Mindy handed him and stood up, “I better find myself a place to stay overnight.”
“The Palace is about the best you can do, Mr. Day. It’s just down the street on the corner.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you Miss McClaren. I think my uncle made a wise choice.”
“Thank you.” Mindy felt her face warm.
He hesitated. “If I wouldn’t be out of line suggesting it—would it be possible for us to have dinner together? There is so much I’d like to know, to ask about my uncle. You see I didn’t know him very well these last years . . . none of us did . . . not my mother nor my stepfather. You, of all people, might have the answers to some of my questions.”
Mindy debated only a few seconds. “Why, yes, thank you. I would be happy to have dinner and answer any questions I could.”
“Splendid. Is the hotel all right? I mean for dinner.”
“Well, actually, Mrs. Busby’s is better. Better food and not so crowded. She’d give us a table to ourselves where we could talk quietly. The Palace tends to get pretty noisy, especially on Fridays when the miners and cowboys come into town for the weekend.”
He held out his hand. “Good enough. Mrs. Busby’s it is then. We’ll meet there at six, right?” He smiled, and that was when Mindy realized what had seemed familiar about him. He had the same smile as Byron.
Lawrence Day left the newspaper office and walked down the street with a sure step. He was impressed. He really hadn’t known what to expect of his uncle’s assistant editor. He had liked the feel of her small hand in his when she had shaken it. In spite of her direct manner and obvious ability, there was something gentle and womanly about her. She hardly reached his chin, but she held herself erect and those eyes—he had never seen s
uch eyes. Their color reminded him of what? Gentians in the fall or the first berries of summer? Bright and a deep blue. Suddenly the arduous trip he had made by train and stage from California that he’d undertaken as a family duty had taken a different tack. He found himself looking forward to having dinner with Miss Mindy McClaren.
Mrs. Busby was happy to meet Byron’s nephew. She had always had a soft spot for the editor, even sending him meals over on a tray when he was recovering from one of his lost weekends.
As she seated them at a window table, she asked, “What will you folks have tonight? Chicken and dumplings is the choice for tonight. ’Course we always have steak for them that wants it. Hash browns with onions.”
Knowing that chicken and dumplings were Mrs. Busby’s specialty, Mindy chose that and Mr. Day followed suit.
While they were waiting for their order he told Mindy he was a manufacturer’s representative for a line of tools. Because of the rapid development in the west he was sent by his company to place their products with hardware stores and builders. “You’d be surprised how much interest there is in the west back east. For awhile, during the war, it was almost forgotten. And the west seems hardly to have been touched by what was happening there. It’s been really an eye-opener to me. People here are eager to have the latest tools, the newest—so my trip has been quite successful.”
Their dinner came, and while they ate they found so much to talk about they hardly noticed that their dessert of deep dish apple pie was served, and their coffee mugs were refilled three times. Suddenly, Mindy looked around and exclaimed. “Good heavens, it must be late.” The dining room had emptied and they were the only two left.
“The time has certainly passed quickly and so pleasantly I hadn’t noticed. I haven’t kept you from anything you had planned, I hope?” Day looked anxious. “No, not at all. But I do have to go in early tomorrow. Thursday, you know.” She started to get up, and Day came around to draw back her chair. Mindy smiled, Byron’s nephew had the gentlemanly manners sadly lacking out here, ones she had almost forgotten still existed.
