Love's Story

by Christner, Dianne; Billerbeck, Kristin;

  The bell rigged on the door of the newspaper office announced her arrival. After a few polite words, Meredith slapped her story down on Charlie Dutton’s desk.

  “Read this. You can tell me later what you think of it. Good day, gentlemen.”

  She strode back to her horse, confident that the newspaper editor would find her article about logging hazards of interest.

  Two hours later, at Bucker’s Stand, the noises of the steam donkey, falling trees, and singing men led her to the center of activity. Jonah waved from his treehouse studio. She waved back, amazed at the way the city man had adapted himself to the rugged environment and rough-edged lumberjacks.

  As usual, Meredith drew some open stares and stolen glances, but she turned a blind eye to all that and put the first phase of her plan into work. Mr. Talbot was peeling the bark off logs. She nestled into the comfortable crook of a low tree branch and reached into her portfolio, aware that Talbot gave her a curious glance. Her back braced against the tree’s trunk, she leisurely swung her legs and began to write, ever watchful of Talbot—her tactic to unnerve him enough that he might approach her and begin a conversation.

  An hour passed. At one point, Meredith became so engrossed in her writing that she unconsciously shifted her seat and caught a splinter in her upper thigh.

  “Ouch.” She winced, then cast a quick glance to see if anyone noticed.

  To her knowledge, no one had. She scooted off the limb and took stilted, painful steps toward a large redwood. She ducked behind it and twisted to inspect the damage. Her skirt was skewered to her hip with a splinter about the size of a sewing needle.

  “Ah,” she groaned.

  To see the sharp piece that punctured flesh to clothing intensified the stabbing pain. She twisted again, took ahold of the sliver, held her breath, and yanked.

  “Ah.” The barb pulled her skin and remained skewered.

  “Miss Mears?” It was Talbot’s voice.

  “Go away,” she called from her hideaway.

  “Do you need help?” His voice now came from just around the other side of the tree’s large round trunk.

  “No.”

  “Listen. I saw what happened.”

  Her heart raced. This wasn’t going as she had planned. She felt helpless, trapped, foolish. She twisted around and took another look. Now the puncture wound was bleeding and seeping through her skirt.

  “I’m coming around the tree.”

  She closed her eyes to wait for the inevitable and leaned her shoulder against the tree trunk.

  When Thatcher rounded the redwood, his first glimpse of her, pale and frightened as a rabbit, plucked his heart. The woman had been watching him for the past hour and writing in that notepad of hers. It was most unsettling, and he had been ready to go over and suggest she run along and distract someone else. But when he had looked over and seen her predicament, he knew he needed to help. He stole a quick look at the problem.

  “That looks painful. Did you try to pull it out?”

  She nodded, her autumn eyes cloudy, her lips pursed.

  “Mind if I have a try?”

  She shrugged and turned just a bit.

  Thatcher cleared his throat, concentrated on the splinter, and gently took hold of it. “This might sting.”

  “I know.”

  “Why don’t you put both hands on that tree trunk? You know, brace yourself a bit.”

  She cast him a frightened look, then placed her palms on the rough bark.

  “Tell me when you’re ready,” Talbot said.

  “Ready.”

  At the sound of her faint voice, he pulled, felt her flinch, felt the splinter release and slide out, and then waved the offensive thing like a banner. “Got it.”

  She took several gasping breaths. “Let me see.”

  He handed it to her.

  “No wonder it hurt, look how jagged it is.”

  “You might have a deep puncture wound there.” He handed her a folded handkerchief. “Better press that against the spot to stop the bleeding.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  Thatcher wanted to get her mind off her wound and make sure the bleeding stopped. He searched his mind for small talk. “Who do you write for?”

  “McClure’s magazine.”

  “Mm. New York.”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  He smiled at her assumption that he was uneducated. “I’ve read it.”

  “I’d like to do some articles for the local newspaper while I’m here.”

  “Don’t know much about that. Haven’t been here long myself.”

  “That’s right. The bull did say you were new man on board.”

  “What does McClure’s find so interesting about logging?”

  “Whatever I write will be interesting, Mr. Talbot.”

  He chuckled. “And what will you write about?”

  “About danger, conservation, the spell these huge trees weave over people, about the loggers themselves.”

  He leaned against the tree, just inches away from her, and crossed his ankles. “Just hardworking men.”

  “What compels you to work here?”

  “Always wanted to see the West.”

  “Is it what you expected?”

  “Haven’t seen enough of it yet to tell.”

  “You going to move from camp to camp?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you worry about the dangers, accidents? Maybe there won’t be a tomorrow.”

  “Men need to set their minds on their work, not the dangers, Miss Mears.”

  “May I quote you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What you said just now, may I quote that?”

  “I didn’t know I was being interviewed. I thought I was just making conversation with a pretty lady.”

  “I won’t use your name,” she said.

  He shrugged and changed the subject. “Did the bleeding stop?”

  Meredith removed the pad and checked it. “I think so.”

  “Why don’t I go get your things and help you back to camp?”

  The pretty reporter accepted his help, though he could tell it pained her to do so. He collected her things, resisting the urge to rifle through her notes, and carried them back to the tree.

  She placed everything inside her portfolio with swift movements of her petite hands. “Ready.”

  “We’ll go slow. Tell me if it hurts too much.”

  “And what will you do if it does?”

  Thatcher shrugged. “Throw you over my shoulder.”

  “It feels just fine.”

  When they reached camp, he asked, “You plan to ride back to town?”

  “I don’t have much choice.”

  “All that bumping around in the saddle might start the bleeding again.”

  “I think I’ll be fine. Once a puncture wound swells and closes, the bleeding stops.”

  “How’d you learn that?”

  “My older stepbrother, Charles, is a doctor.”

  He shrugged. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll go get your horse then.”

  When Meredith arrived home, Mrs. Cooper took one look at her, limping into the parlor, and rushed forward. “My dear. What’s wrong?”

  “My leg,” Meredith moaned. “I got this horrible splinter in it.”

  “Why, it’s bleeding, you poor thing. Let’s get you into a tub and see what it looks like.”

  “Mm. That sounds wonderful. It’s so sore.”

  The rest of the evening, Mrs. Cooper clucked over Meredith like a mother hen, and Meredith let her.

  The next morning Meredith’s wound, covered with Mrs. Cooper’s special drawing liniment and a bandage, felt so improved that she only remembered it at times when she bumped it against something. Meredith supposed it had served a purpose. She’d gotten her interview with Talbot, though it had not revealed much. In fact, it was more as if he had interviewed her. Somewhere she had lost control.
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  After breakfast and reassuring Mrs. Cooper for the third time that she really felt fine, she walked to the newspaper office. She opened the door in one breath and asked the editor in the next, “Did you read it?”

  “It’s very good. Can I print it?”

  A glow of pleasure crept over Meredith. “Yes.”

  “You’ve made them into heroes. The loggers will love it. Everyone will. It’s the female perspective of courage that makes the story. It’s…”

  “Romantic?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Romantic. Can you do more of these?”

  “I was hoping you would ask.”

  Enthusiasm laced his voice. “We could do a weekly column. Or whatever you can get me, if that’s too much.”

  “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Dutton.”

  Even the memory of Frederick Ralston’s glare didn’t keep Meredith from humming a tune. Now if only Asa thought her articles were romantic, newsworthy. He had scoffed at her. Or was that because he was protective? Asa had not replied to the articles she’d sent him. But she was pleased with her efforts so far. She was getting a story in a man’s world, a good story.

  Mrs. Cooper saw Meredith enter the house. “That gown is so much more appealing, dear. Doesn’t it do as well as trousers?”

  Meredith answered her landlady in her most patient tone, after all, she had been so kind to her the evening before, almost motherly.

  “I don’t enjoy wearing men’s clothing. A journalist has to do things that aren’t always pleasant just to get a story. The readers will remember the story long after they forget what I wore. They’ll remember where Buckman’s Pride is. They’ll recall what happens at Bucker’s Stand.”

  “I understand your point. It’s just hard to see you bring the town’s scorn upon yourself. I wish folks could see you for the nice girl you are, as I do.”

  Meredith eased down at the kitchen table, sitting on her good hip. She set her portfolio on the floor, propped her elbows on the table, and cupped her chin in her hands. Her voice took a faraway tone. “I confess, I do care what they think. Two ladies snubbed me the other day, wouldn’t even return a greeting. Why? I’m sure they never saw me in trousers. I don’t parade around town in them.”

  Mrs. Cooper’s high cheekbones blushed even more than their usual peachy color. “It is a small town.”

  “Perhaps you could pass on a few good words for me.”

  “I could do better than that.” Mrs. Cooper perked up at her own sudden idea. “I could have a dinner and invite a few choice people. They can see for themselves what a delightful creature you are.”

  Meredith brightened. “You would do that?”

  “Yes. And we could invite your partner, Mr. Shaw.”

  “He’s coming back to town tomorrow to work in his studio for a few days.”

  “Splendid! I’ll get to work on it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cooper. I do appreciate your concern.”

  “Save your thanks, dear. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”

  Mrs. Cooper leaned across the table and patted her hand. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  Meredith nodded and reached down for her portfolio. It was important to her to make a favorable impression. In New York, the ladies had loved her. There she was the height of fashion, the epitome of what women hoped to be. Maybe she was a bit of a “new woman.” Perhaps this small town wasn’t ready for her. Could she fit in?

  Chapter 8

  The town stableboy handed Meredith a note.

  She cast a glance around her, then unfolded it and read:

  Miss Mears,

  I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, but I knew your intentions of going to Bucker’s Stand today to work on the column. I have a bigger story that really needs a woman’s perspective, this edition’s big news. Come see me.

  Charlie Dutton

  Presumptuous, indeed. She stuffed the note into her pocket, took leave of the stableboy, and headed straight for the Buckman News. That contrary, pale-faced reporter was probably behind this. It better be some big story, if, indeed, there was a story.

  The newsroom door banged and its bell clanged behind Meredith. “Mr. Dutton!”

  The elderly editor offered a sheepish smile. Ralston wasn’t in the room. “I was expecting you.”

  Meredith wrenched the piece of paper from her pocket and waved it. “What is the meaning of this? Is there really a big story?”

  “It’s as big as twins.”

  It took a moment for the meaning of his words to settle in. “Someone had twins?”

  Dutton nodded. “Last night Francine Wiley delivered a set of twin boys, and as far as I know they both lived. It’s a miracle.”

  Meredith tried her hardest not to smile. She knew the survival of twins was a momentous occasion. In a town this size it would be the big story. “You’re right. This is today’s story.” She set her portfolio upon the closest desk and withdrew a pencil. “Give me directions.”

  On her way out the door, she turned back to the newsman. “You do understand this wasn’t fair? I am capable of handling both stories and should have been allowed to do so.”

  “Perhaps. Time will tell. Now hurry up and get your story before the whole town gets it on their own, firsthand.”

  “Humph!” The door banged again, and Dutton chuckled.

  Meanwhile at Bucker’s Stand, an amazing thing took place. None of the loggers, including the bull, could hear often enough the marvelous things that had been written about themselves.

  From the groaning tree to the whining sawmill, to list the ways a logger can be maimed, crushed, or killed is a countless task. Yet by use of their brawn, ingenuity, and courage, they persevere. Just as no axe can reach the center of a giant redwood, no words can describe the courage of the lumberjack. These noble men—whose boots tread the carpets of the deep woods and whose dreams soar just as high as any other man’s—are out to tame the untamable by raw muscle power and tough determination. Every lonely bucker, every axman, faller, climber, peeler, and bull is somebody’s son or brother or husband with a life expectancy of only seven years, so dangerous is the job. I stand beneath the canopied trees, whose roots entangle the logger’s heart—wooing dreams and sapping life’s blood—and ask, “Don’t you worry about the dangers?”

  “Men need to set their minds on their work, not the dangers,” I was told. And not only are these men’s minds on their work, but their hearts….

  Thatcher Talbot refolded the worn, now fragile, newspaper in a reverent gesture and laid it back on the mess hall table. When he read his quote, his heart swelled with appreciation. The reporter would not praise without merit. She had seen into their souls. She understood.

  Ever since he had laid eyes on her on the train, she had intrigued him, her beauty and spirit slinking their way into his inner being. If she was this perceptive, this deeply moved, perhaps she was worth knowing.

  But his life held so many uncertainties right now that it wouldn’t be wise to form any kind of an attachment. He shook his head. The eastern reporter had wormed her contrary self into his every thought and emotion, and he didn’t know what to do about it. And now, her name was praise on every man’s lips in the camp.

  Someone entered the tent, and Thatcher looked up. “Silas,” he motioned. “What do you think of this article?”

  Mrs. Cooper was as pleased as a woodpecker in a dead tree, doing what she liked to do best, entertain.

  “Pass the meat, dear,” Mrs. Cooper said. “Miss Mears used to write the society column in New York City.”

  “How very interesting,” Beatrice Bloomfield, the banker’s wife, said. “You must find it very dull in Buckman’s Pride.”

  “Indeed not.” Meredith smiled at the woman, so near her own age, the one who had snubbed her in town. “Just the other day, the Wiley twins were born. Did you read my article?”

  “Well yes, I did. But we both know that’s a rare occasion.”

/>   “Nonsense. This town is a writer’s dream come true.”

  “And how is that?” The dark-haired beauty asked.

  “Buckman’s Pride oozes with adventure, Wild West, romance, interesting people, and determination. I like the spirit of this town.”

  “As do I,” Jonah said as he stabbed a piece of meat with his fork. “I’ll find it very hard to leave.”

  “Must you leave?” Mrs. Cooper asked.

  “I’ll give that question some serious thought.” His intense gaze made Mrs. Cooper’s blue eyes sparkle in the same cornflower blue as the floral-patterned coffee cup poised next to her cheek.

  “We would consider you a valuable addition to our community,” The banker replied.

  “And you?” Beatrice Bloomfield asked, her brown-eyed gaze fixed on Meredith.

  “I plan to return. My father lives in New York.”

  “Oh? Does he greatly influence your life, my dear?” Mrs. Cooper asked.

  “Yes, I suppose he does,” Meredith said. There was a general silence around the table, and Mrs. Cooper passed the food again. Finally, Meredith asked, “Is there a women’s auxiliary in Buckman’s Pride?”

  “Why, yes. We have the Women’s Circle, which does charitable deeds,” Beatrice Bloomfield said. Her thin lips formed a smug smile.

  “May I come to one of your meetings?” Meredith asked. “I could do an article on your work.”

  “Well, I couldn’t say without discussing it first with the other ladies.”

  “We have a meeting next Monday night, don’t we, Beatrice?” Mrs. Cooper asked. “I’ll remind you to bring it up.”

  “But it might interfere with Miss Mears’s more important projects, traipsing off to Bucker’s Stand and all.”

  “Traipsing?” Meredith repeated in an insulted tone.

  “You do ride unaccompanied to the men’s camp.”