Love's Story
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Love’s Story (previously titled Storm) ©2000 by Dianne Christner
Strong as the Redwood ©1997 by Kristin Billerbeck
Print ISBN 978-1-63409-901-1
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-036-7
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-037-4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
Contents
Love’s Story
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Strong as the Redwood
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Prologue
New York, 1899
The storm that blew through the offices of McClure’s magazine was five-foot-four and brunette. Meredith S. Mears’s middle initial stood for Storm. Whether her parents named Storm after her personality or whether her personality took shape around her name, the other reporters knew not, but one thing stood certain, the name accurately described her as she strode past.
Several pairs of male eyes followed the green skirt that swayed around tiny black-heeled lace-up boots. She marched to a door with a nameplate that read ASA SMYTHE, EDITOR, and her small hand shot up and knocked. They watched her hesitate, then turn the knob. The door opened and closed. One reporter cocked an eyebrow, another frowned, and the men returned to their work.
Meredith straightened to her full height and cleared her throat.
The comb-slicked top of a gray head whipped back, a deep voice broke the silence of the room. “What can I do for you, Storm?”
She slapped down her latest article on his desk. “I want a real assignment.”
The editor did not flinch, only nodded his head toward the chair that faced his desk. “Why don’t you sit down, and let’s discuss this matter like two civilized people.”
Meredith seated herself, planted both feet firmly on the floor and clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. The man across the desk, with nerves like steel, was not only her editor, he was the one person who knew how to help her keep her goals in perspective and meet them. To be a journalist—in a man’s world in the year 1899—was not an easy thing. Asa Smythe made it easier.
“Now then, what determines a real assignment, Storm?”
“Covering a subject that makes a difference in the world, writing something other than the society column, fashion reviews, or advertisements.”
“Did you ever stop to think that your position at McClure’s, in and of itself, is doing just that for the advancement of women?”
“That’s not my purpose here, and you know it.”
“It may not be your purpose, but it is the issue.”
“This is not about women. It is about me doing something worthwhile.”
Asa straightened the paperwork on his desk. “And what are these pressing concerns that you harbor?”
She leaned forward. “You know how I hate it when people or animals get mistreated or hurt.” The fine lines on Asa’s face deepened. It was true, she could not stand seeing any living thing hurt.
“I’ve read some of John Muir’s writings,” she continued. “Last week I had the chance to hear him speak on the issue of conservation of the western forests. He portrays the tree as a living thing. His speech has been nagging at me all week. Something needs to be done before the loggers use up all the good timber out West, as they have in the East.”
“Oh no.” Asa shook his head. “You cannot even think that I would send you on such an assignment.”
“It is exactly what I’m thinking. It would be perfect for me.” She stood and paced the room. “Think about this angle, a woman’s view of the backwoods, the Wild West. It would be romantic.”
“Romantic! What are you thinking?”
“It would make a great series! I could get inside the heads that fell the trees, the minds that make the money. From a female perspective, I could…”
“Stop right there. Do you have any idea what a loggers’ camp is like?”
“Well, no. That’s just it. Neither does the average person. I could make this story come alive. I know I could.”
“It is impossible. Why, once a man becomes a logger, his life expectancy is only seven years.”
She shook her head, and a dark strand worked loose from her upswept hairdo. Her slender fingers hastily tucked it back into place. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“It means, young lady, that your life expectancy in such a place would probably be about seven days.”
“Exaggerating a wee bit, aren’t we?”
“How would a woman with your good looks survive in such an uncivilized place? Where would you stay?”
Her chin rose. “I’ve done a bit of research myself. I’ll choose a camp that’s close to civilization, and I’ll take along a male photographer.”
Asa groaned something incoherent, then said, “No. It is out of the question. I am sure we can find something safer that would suit you.”
Meredith placed both palms on the desk across from him, her face close to his. “I can do it. Please, Asa. It is something that I need to do, either for McClure’s or on my own, but I’d rather do it for you.”
“Go away. Let me think.”
“Yes sir.” Before she reached the door, she turned back. “One more thing. I have in mind the California logging camps. I could take the Overland Limited all the way to San Francisco. It’s only a three-day trip from Chicago, and going by rail is ever so safe these days.”
“Storm.”
“Yes?”
“Please, go away.”
Another nod, and Meredith was out of the editor’s office. She whisked
past the other reporters with a smug smile, her thoughts already far away. Hmm, what clothes will I need in San Francisco? Before Meredith packed any clothes, however, she had an unpleasant chore to attend to, another call to make.
She knocked at the door of the house where she was raised. The door creaked open, and her father’s hazel eyes rested on her, then closed like iron gates. The lines around his eyes and mouth sagged. He shrugged stiff shoulders and left her standing on the stoop. Because she was expected to follow him, she did. The way he hunkered down at the paperwork strewn on the kitchen table, it was obvious he didn’t want to be bothered. But Meredith tried. She placed the latest edition of the McClure’s on the table beside him. He merely glanced at the printed intrusion and left it lay.
A pot of coffee warmed on the stove, so she poured them each a cup. “I have an assignment.” Instead of giving her a reply, her father took a swig of his drink. “I’m going to California to do a story on forest conservation.”
He eyed her over the rim of his cup, and Storm took a gulp of the bitter liquid while she waited. Her father picked up the McClure’s issue and squashed a fly with it, then tossed the magazine on the floor by his feet. “If you go west, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
Meredith slammed the cup down with a rattle; coffee splattered her father’s paperwork.
“I need to get far away from you. You never have loved me.” With tears welling up, she strode past him and slammed the door on her way out.
Inside the house, her father’s arm lashed out and swept across the table. Papers scattered and floated down to the floor over shattered glass. His head dropped into his hands, and he combed his fingers through his hair, wondering how his life had gotten to such a low point. She’s right. He leaned his old bones over the side of his chair and groped for the magazine that mattered so much to Meredith.
Chapter 1
The train screeched, iron scraping against iron, and lurched forward to start Meredith on her westward journey. Without a bit of regret, she watched the depot disappear from view. After coughing up cinders, the locomotive clacked up momentum, eventually settling into a comfortable rhythm of motion. Beside her, Jonah Shaw thumbed open a red-and-white cloth-covered book entitled An Adventure in Photography.
“Have you been west before?” she asked her traveling escort.
“Mm-hmm. Once.”
The fifty-year-old photographer had an attitude that reminded Meredith of a crusty old schoolmaster she’d once had, who rapped his students across the knuckles with a stick when they became too rambunctious.
She hunched close. “Did you like it?”
He slowly lowered his book to his lap. “I never decided.”
“I think I shall like it.”
“Why?”
“I hear it’s a vast land with plenty of room to prove some things.”
He did not reply, but raised his book until the only part of his face visible was his smooth bald forehead.
She patted his arm. “Don’t be so stuffy, Jonah.” He flinched, and when she saw that she would not get any more out of him, she set her mind to work. Within moments, she had come up with a way to pass the time. She reached down by her feet for her brown leather portfolio. It was full of writing materials, and while most women carried parasols, this portfolio accompanied Meredith wherever she went.
“Excuse me, please.”
“Where are you going?” Small, stern eyes peered over his book.
“I’ve come up with an idea for a great story. Asa will love it.”
“But where are you going?”
She stepped over him. “To interview the passengers.” Meredith kept her back to Jonah, sensing his wary eyes upon her. He’ll soon get tired of doing that. She worked her way to a vacant seat and fine prospect. “May I join you a moment?”
A woman with a tiny baby in her arms and another child playing at her ankles considered her peculiar request.
“Of course. It’s my son’s seat, but he’s inclined to play right now.”
Meredith looked at the fuzzy-haired boy whose pudgy hands were exploring the fabric seams of the train’s seat.
“He seems an intelligent, inquisitive lad to say the least. My name is Meredith S. Mears. I’m a reporter. I’m doing a story on the people who take the Overland Limited. Would you mind telling me about your travels?”
“Going to Chicago to visit some relatives.”
“Traveling alone with children. What a brave soul you are.”
“Thank you.”
Meredith caressed the baby’s dimpled cheek. “Have a good trip.”
Next she worked her way toward an interesting subject, a square-faced woman who wore a diamond brooch and traveled with a servant. There were no empty seats, so Meredith merely hovered over the woman as she introduced herself and her intentions.
“I think not.” The woman placed her hand over her ample bosom and turned her angular face toward the passing landscape.
Meredith straightened her torso. A reporter never gives up, so she cast a quick look about the train to see whom she should interview next. But the tracks made a sharp curve, and the sudden sway of the train sent her reeling across the aisle in utter helplessness.
Some hands reached out to steady her. She bumped her elbow hard on one of the seats. Her paper flew up and her pen rolled away, down the aisle. It took several helpful gentlemen to get everything straightened out. With a gush of apologies, she stumbled back down the aisle, across Jonah’s legs, and collapsed into her seat. She did not look at him as she rubbed her throbbing elbow.
“Have you proven anything yet?” Jonah asked from behind his book.
Meredith did not reply. Before long, the pain in her arm subsided, and she eased back into the corner of her seat and closed her eyes.
Meredith awoke to the sound of the train’s shrill whistle and the conductor’s call, “Chicago Station.”
It took about an hour to detrain, check on their luggage, find something to eat, and board their next train. This one would take them to their destination. It was long and full of Pullman sleeping cars, dining cars, smoking cars, plush seats, and every convenience known to travelers.
“Perhaps you’d like the aisle this time?” Jonah asked.
“Yes, please.” Meredith set down her portfolio and straightened the pins in her hair.
At last the train wheels turned; the floor rumbled at Meredith’s feet. City buildings passed in and out of view, making Meredith dizzy until they had picked up speed and entered the greener countryside. When the slight discomfort of head and stomach subsided, Meredith reverted to scrutinizing the other passengers, still intent on continuing her interviews.
One man, in particular, who occupied a window seat just across the aisle, caught her interest. His melancholy gaze was fixed on the passing scenery. Meredith sensed a hurt or regret of some sort in those soft brown eyes and wondered about his life. It only seemed natural to ease into the seat next to him.
“Hello.”
Thatcher Talbot jerked his gaze from the window and stared in disbelief at the forward woman, her autumn-colored eyes sympathetic yet gently probing. There was a dusting of ginger across her nose and cheeks. A multitude of thoughts rushed through his mind. I noticed her when she boarded the train. He remembered feeling a bit envious of the balding man that accompanied her.
“I’m Meredith S. Mears, New York reporter. Doing a story on the people who travel the Overland Limited.”
He stared at her extended hand, and the urge to press it to his lips left him with a voice of warning. Reporter. She’ll expose you.
After a considerable pause, the woman dropped her hand. Her voice took on a professional tone. “May I ask you a few questions?”
See! The warning voice gloated. He frowned. “No, I was about to get some much-needed rest.” Then he stretched his legs, cocked his hat to block out the world with its nosey reporters, and slouched in his seat.
From beneath his hidey-hole, his face b
urned when he heard the passenger one seat behind him offer, “You can interview me.”
Meredith felt a prick of hurt and turned from the uncooperative passenger to the voice beckoning her. Once Meredith accumulated enough material for her story, she started back toward her seat, careful to watch for the quirks of the train. A keen desire to steal another glance across the aisle at the man with the melancholy expression could not be suppressed.
He was gone.
Three days later, a wilted and wrinkled Meredith stepped down from the train that had whisked her across a continent. She raised her arm to shade her eyes from the sun, gave a small cough to expel the dust from her lungs, and gazed at the new world that received her, San Francisco.
“I’ll go get our baggage and be right back,” Jonah said. He removed his hat to wipe his brow, then replaced it on his smooth head.
“Thank you.” Meredith pointed with a gloved hand. “I’ll wait over there, out of the way.”
“Good.”
Meredith had learned from experience that one of the best ways to encounter a new situation was to stand back and study how things were done. A welcome summer breeze ruffled her skirt, and she reached up to straighten her hat with one hand while the other clutched her brown leather portfolio.
Tall buildings on streets that ran straight toward the sky surrounded the depot. The tang of sea air and the aroma of food from nearby vendors mixed with the sooty foul smells from the trains. Soon her attention settled onto some familiar faces from the trip. “Good luck to you,” she called out to a fellow passenger, giving him a wave.
The woman with the large diamond brooch strutted by with a small group of people. Meredith caught the words “new woman.” The accusation hurt. That was the name going around for the progressive women who were stepping out of social boundaries with the turn of the new century. Meredith, however, did not consider herself a part of that radical group. She had nothing to prove to the world about being a woman. She only needed to prove to her father… well, she certainly would not think about that today.
A trickle of sweat ran down her brow, and an unfeminine wetness beneath her arms caused discomfort. She noticed a line of horse-drawn hackneys and wondered if she should secure one, when Jonah’s thin but sturdy figure appeared with a porter. She fell into step with them as they made their way to a hackney. The driver stood by his rig.