Presently, the teller returned. “Mrs. Bloomfield will be right with you.”
Meredith nodded and continued to wait.
With brisk steps Beatrice Bloomfield entered from a side door.
“You asked to see me?”
Meredith hastened forward. “I stopped in to see the photograph that Jonah took of you and your husband.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Bloomfield pointed. “But, it’s right behind you, Miss Mears.”
Meredith felt a stab of embarrassment and whirled. She gave it a thorough perusal. “It’s very good.” Her compliment was from the heart. “It adds such a touch of dignity.”
“We like it.” Mrs. Bloomfield’s hand fluttered at her bosom. “I…”
“I’ve brought you something to go with it.” Meredith pulled a paper from her portfolio and handed it to the other woman.
Mrs. Bloomfield hesitated then accepted the paper, her finger slowly tracing the professional print as a look of wonder stole across her face. “Isn’t this clever? The name of our bank, date founded, and our own names as proprietors. That’s very kind of you, Miss Mears.”
“You can frame it to hang with your photograph.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Mrs. Bloomfield said.
Meredith felt awkward. “It’s just a small thing.” Not knowing what else to say, she eased the conversation to a close and left the bank. Outside, she smiled, quite pleased with herself.
When Meredith reached home, Amelia called from the kitchen. “A package arrived for you. It’s at the foot of the stairs.”
“Thank you.” Meredith stooped to retrieve the round box, which felt featherlight. I wonder what this could be.
Behind the closed door of her room, she laid the package on her bed and hastened to unwrap it. Inside the wrappings was a hatbox. How strange.
She removed the lid and carefully peeled back the thin paper. It was the smart yellow hat with the green ostrich feather! How? Who? A note.
It read: “Looking forward to dinner. Thatcher.”
Meredith gaped at it for several long minutes before she removed it from the box. She modeled it in front of her mirror. She felt giddy. How sweet. I adore it. But, of course, I can’t keep this. How did he know? What a puzzling man he is.
Thatcher Talbot appeared on Meredith’s doorstep dressed in his tan leather vest. His hair shone, and his face did, too, with the masculine confidence Meredith so admired in a man. Following an effort to greet him as nonchalantly as she could manage, she allowed him to hold her hand in the crook of his arm all the way to the hotel, where they were seated for dinner.
“I’m glad that you accepted my invitation.”
“How could I not? You promised a story, didn’t you?”
“Before we get to that, I’d like to tell you that you look very lovely, tonight.”
“Thank you, and I must tell you that I cannot accept your lovely gift.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be proper, Mr. Talbot. We hardly know each other.”
Thatcher laughed out loud. “First, please call me Thatcher. And second, when were you ever known as proper?”
Meredith couldn’t help but smile. “You do have a point.”
His voice dropped low, almost a whisper. “Please, keep the hat. I’d like to see you in it sometime.”
“But how did you know I wanted it?”
He leaned close. “I saw you trying it on through the store window.”
Before she could reply or protest any further, the waitress appeared to take their order. By the time she left their table, the moment was gone, and the discussion of the hat dropped. Instead, they enjoyed small talk until their red snapper arrived.
“Now about that story?” Meredith reminded him.
“I didn’t have anything special in mind.” He shrugged. “But I know you can come up with something to ask me.”
She cocked her head. “The real reason that I came to Buckman’s Pride was to investigate the issue of timber conservation.”
“I don’t think there’s any urgency in the issue. Do you?”
“That’s what the eastern loggers said. They waited too long.”
“I was offered a job this week that might interest you.”
“What kind of job?”
“Bucker’s Stand is sending a crew inland to start work on a logging railroad.”
“What’s that?”
“A track used exclusively for hauling timber. Soon the area by the river will be exhausted.”
“Do you know when they plan to move the camp?”
“No. But preparations are being made.”
“Do you think the owners of the logging companies would employ conservation methods if they were informed?”
“I imagine each company might respond differently.” He sipped on a second cup of coffee.
“Thanks, Thatcher. You’ve given me something to think about.”
They finished their dinner, further discussing the issue of conservation. Meredith enjoyed the evening so much she was sorry to have it end. When Thatcher escorted her home, he hesitated outside the door.
“I probably shouldn’t invite you in. Mrs. Cooper was very specific about men callers.”
“I understand,” he said, although he made no move to leave.
Meredith said the foremost thing on her mind. “I still know practically nothing about you.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You’ve seen me work.”
She looked skeptical. “I don’t think…” But she was unable to complete her sentence, for Thatcher had pulled her close against him. Meredith’s breath quickened, and she looked up at his face. His eyes were soft, irresistible. She knew she must step away from him, but she didn’t want to. He bent down and kissed her.
Thatcher drew away first and gave her a smug smile. “You’ll do. I think I’ll marry you.”
His arrogant attitude brought her up cold. “Of all the impertinent things. I shall never marry you!”
He chuckled. “We’ll see, Miss Meredith S. Mears.” He chuckled again.
“We shall not see! Good night, Mr. Talbot!”
Inside her room, Meredith pressed her fingers to her burning lips. For all she knew, Talbot was a wanted man. She tried to steady herself as she fumbled with the light. The first thing she saw when the room was lit was the yellow hat with a green ostrich feather. Meredith moaned. Oh, I should have returned you.
Thatcher continued to chuckle long after the door slammed in his face. He shouldn’t have teased her, but he liked her spunk. It seemed natural to admit to her what he had just discovered for himself: He wanted to marry Meredith, even if it meant his own undoing.
Chapter 14
Meredith’s fingers pounded out fragmented thoughts and facts until she came to a point where she left her desk to search through her bags. She needed the article that had first pricked her attention on the conservation problem, John Muir’s “The American Forests.” His bold words would make a good quote:
“Any fool can destroy trees. They cannot run away; and if they could, they would still be destroyed—chased and hunted down as long as fun or a dollar could be got out of their bark hides, branching horns, or magnificent bole backbones.”
Meredith tapped her cheek with her finger. A bit too strong? How would the townspeople react? She wanted to get their attention, and this would. She would leave it.
The residents of Buckman’s Pride received Meredith’s newspaper article much like a hard blow to the stomach. Stunned people turned angry, even ugly. The uproar spread throughout the town until it reached Meredith early the following morning in the form of handwritten notes, delivered by a tight-faced Amelia.
Warily reluctant, Meredith read: “Something is rotten in the woodlands. You!”
Another read: “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll write a retraction.”
Finally: “Come to the newsroom so we can talk about this mess. Charlie.”
Meredith’s face felt hot. Ameli
a’s features resembled the sharp eyes of a vulture.
“I can just imagine what those say.”
The reporter crumpled the papers. “I take it you don’t approve of the article either?”
“It was a bit insensitive to imply that our sawmill is wasteful.”
“I only said many around the country were.”
“Humph! Same thing.”
“I got their attention, didn’t I?”
“You can’t rip folks’ hearts open and expect them to listen to you.”
“They’ll listen, and if they don’t, someone else will.”
“You’re making it hard for yourself in this town.”
There was a long silence, and finally Meredith said. “You’ll still be my friend, won’t you, Amelia?”
Meredith heard a soft sigh just before Amelia said, “I’m your friend. Just take my advice as a mother’s.”
“I never had a mother,” Meredith said.
Amelia’s arms opened in invitation. “Come here, dear.”
“Sit down, Miss Mears.” The newspaper owner’s face twitched. “We’ve a problem with your last article. It’s too direct.”
“Caused a stir?” She gave him a ghost of a smile.
“I think every citizen of Buckman’s Pride’s marched through this door in the last twenty-four hours.”
“That’s great! We’ve got their attention. Now we can…”
“Write a retraction.”
“What!” Meredith sprang to her feet like a lioness protecting her cub. “Never! It’s a valid issue, and Buckman’s Pride’s got to wake up to the facts.”
His eyes snapped. “I realize that.”
“You do?”
“I let you publish the article, didn’t I? Now we need to back off a bit. Let things settle. Feed them some more of the fluff you wrote before.”
“News isn’t always pleasant to the ear.”
His smile faded. “The logging industry is what this town survives on. You’ve attacked their jugular vein.”
Meredith reseated herself. She clenched and unclenched her hands. “I don’t know if I can do a retraction. I’m not saying I won’t. I will if it’s necessary. It’s just that I have another angle in mind. I need some time. Can the retraction at least wait until the regular weekly column?”
She presented an interesting prospect.
“Yours can. I’ll do one from the newspaper today.”
“Fair enough.” The newspaper office’s door jingled beneath her departing touch. She paused and turned back to ask, “Did you get any personal threats?”
His voice held a hint of humor. “I guess you could call them that.”
“Me, too.”
Her hand rested on the doorknob. There seemed to be something more on his mind. “As an outsider, you can write things I can’t. But you might get run out of town.”
“That’s part of being a good journalist, knowing when to pack up and run.”
Meredith pursued her other angles at once. She eased down onto the stiff chair Clement Washington offered her. Meredith remembered that this man did not relish wasted time. As soon as her portfolio hit the floor, rousing a puff of dust, she began to recite her memorized spiel.
“I came to apologize for my recent newspaper article. My accusations referred to sawmills across the country, but in your defense, the town has taken them quite personally.”
A righteous anger bloated Washington’s cheeks. “Given your occupation, you are neither naïve nor stupid. Your article’s intent was quite clear.”
“But, it was not personal.”
“Then why are you here?”
Meredith held back her own rising emotions and spoke in a calm tone. “Wasting timber is a serious issue.”
“I agree.”
“Then you apply methods of conservation?”
“Let’s take a walk.” He didn’t expect an answer. His chair scraped against the floor, and a few papers fluttered up to resettle on his quivering desk.
Meredith grabbed her portfolio and scrambled after him, his words hurling back at her. “Wood is a much-needed resource. Where do you think your paper comes from?”
She panted, working up a sweat to keep up with the man’s cantankerous strides. “I agree. Timber should be used. Foresters only offer suggestions to keep these resources from running out one day.”
Washington stopped so abruptly that Meredith had to retrace her steps. Her chest heaved as she looked where he pointed. He shouted above the buzzing saws, his finger still thrust forward.
“See what he’s doing?”
Meredith gave a half shrug.
“He’s sweeping. I keep a clean mill. It cuts down on the chance of fire.”
It was one of the methods of conservation she had read about. “That’s a fine thing,” she shouted back.
They watched the mill workers as Washington pointed out to Meredith the many ways that the mill already minimized waste. They utilized the entire tree as it passed through, from logs to shingles. When she had seen enough, they left.
“Mr. Washington, I’m favorably impressed, and I do apologize for the trouble I’ve caused you.”
“I accept your apology.”
“Even so, I’ll feel negligent if I don’t share something else with you.”
“By all means,” he gestured with outstretched palms, “don’t hold back now.”
She smiled. “President McKinley has appointed Gifford Pinchot as chief of the Division of Forestry. Heard of Pinchot?”
“I’ve heard of him. Why?”
“His division offers free advice to mill owners. Would you be willing to take a look at such materials?”
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Then I thank you for your time. I’ll get you the information and put some good words about your mill in my next article.”
“I’d appreciate that. In your magazine article, too?”
“You’re neither naïve nor stupid,” she said with a grin. “Yes, my magazine article also.”
They shook hands, and she turned to go, then stopped. “Can Jonah take some photographs of your mill?”
“Already has.”
“Some particular shots of how you keep the mill clean?”
“Sure. He’d be mighty welcome.”
Since Mr. Washington’s mercurial attitude had turned obliging, Meredith couldn’t resist satisfying her own curiosity. “You don’t seem like a man who would threaten a woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“I received some nasty messages.”
“Rest assured, they weren’t from me.” He looked sincere.
“I believe you.”
“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt my friend’s wife. Amelia’s taken a liking to you.”
“I’m glad we had this talk.”
“Me, too.”
Meredith chuckled at him as she left. For all his explosiveness, she rather liked the southerner. She was glad he was open to conservation. Meredith hurried home to put her thoughts in black and white.
Yet the dawn of a new day in forestry is breaking. Emerson says that things refuse to be mismanaged long. She hoped her next confrontation, with the bull at Bucker’s Stand, would only go as well.
Chapter 15
A sudden dread filled Meredith. The rumbling of distant thunder filled the air and the shadowing dark clouds rolled overhead like a fast-moving locomotive breathing down the back of her neck. The unfrequented forest that stretched across either side of the road with its ghoulish-shaped trees and dense underbrush appeared dark and forbidding—an uninviting place with wild animals more fearsome than the inevitable storm. She bent low, hugged her knees against her mount, and pressed him forward.
“C’mon, boy,” she coaxed. “Think stable.” She might reach Bucker’s Stand before the cloudburst.
There was a loud crack overhead, and Meredith’s horse faltered but recovered his stride. At first the rain fell hit-and-miss, but shortly following that, stingin
g drops pelted Meredith and her horse.
“Almost there,” Meredith urged. “Ugh,” she moaned when the sky burst open just as they rode into camp.
Meredith’s soggy pants clung to her legs as she swung one over her saddle to dismount. On the ground, her boots slipped on the slick mud, and she slid, her horse sidestepping from the pull of the reins.
“Whoa, boy.” She grappled with gloved hands to bring the skittish beast under control. “That a boy.”
By the time the horse quit dancing in circles, a groom had appeared to relieve Meredith. “Take good care of him.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am. We made fast friends the last time he was here.” Then he turned toward the animal. “Here you go, pretty boy.”
Meredith’s body shivered until her teeth rattled. She clenched her jacket to her torso and ran in a careful slip-sliding gait toward the bull’s tent. From beneath the sagging brim of her hat, she saw a small lake surrounding the tent. There was no way but to slosh through it. When she threw open the flap, a stream of water poured down her neck and face.
The bull’s mouth gaped open. “Land sakes, woman, come in.”
“What a mess.”
The bull got up from his desk and disappeared into the back room of his tent. He returned with a wool blanket. “Take off your coat and wrap in this.”
Meredith shivered. “Thanks.”
After she was salvaged with the comforts of chair, blanket, and a warm cup of his coffee, she murmured, “I feel a bit foolish.”
He nodded. “You look foolish.”
“Know why I’m here?”
“Either to lambaste me or apologize.”
“I already did the first. I came to apologize.”
“What a relief,” he mocked and stretched out his legs.
Meredith grimaced as she swallowed down the strong drink. “The town’s in an uproar.”
“They’ll get over it.”
“Why are you being so nice?”
He gave a half shrug. “Hard to yell at a drowned rat.”
It was impossible to appear professional after that remark, but she tried. “Ever heard of selective logging?”
Love's Story Page 8
