Every Perfect Gift (23 page)

He shifted his knapsack to his other shoulder and smiled down at her. “All right. I’m listening.”

“That day at Blue Smoke, when you asked about my family, I said they were Italian and French.”

“I remember.”

“I’m ashamed to admit that I was not truthful. I’ve regretted it ever since, and I want to rectify the situation.”

His forehead furrowed. “Go on.”

“The truth is, I have no idea who I am or where I came from. My first memories are of living at the orphanage and being called, among many other things . . . a mulatto.” Even after all this time, the recollection still hurt. She lifted one shoulder. “Maybe I am.”

He turned away and stared out over the valley. Tears welled up and she scrubbed at her eyes, willing them away. After the incident with the stranger at Blue Smoke that night when Ethan had been
so angry, so dismissive of his mixed-blooded visitor, what else had she expected?

She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I don’t blame you for hating me. I was wrong to deceive you, and I wish—more than you can imagine—that I’d had the courage to admit this to you from the outset.”

Ethan looked at her then, his expression hard and unknowable.

“Please forgive me.” Not knowing who her parents were had always made her ache inside, but the look in his eyes caused a wound just as deep. His silence enveloped her like a shroud. What was the use of saying anything more? “Please take me down to the rig. I can walk from there. I don’t imagine you care for my company any—”

“Yoo-hoo!” A female voice echoed across the ridge. “Mr. Heyward? Anybody here?”

Ethan hesitated, then cupped his hands and called out, “Hello?”

A woman wearing a sturdy brown skirt, white shirtwaist, and battered gray hat appeared on the path in front of them. Buggy-whip thin and all sharp angles, she shouldered a bulky leather bag, but it didn’t seem to hinder her confident stride. She clambered up beside them and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “That is quite some climb, Mr. Heyward.”

“Indeed.” Ethan placed one hand on the small of Sophie’s back and gave her a gentle nudge. “Miss Swint, may I present Miss Sophie Caldwell. She owns the
Gazette
. Miss Caldwell, this is Miss Garaphelia Swint.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.” Miss Swint bobbed her head at Sophie. “I heard a woman was running the paper these days, and I’m glad to hear it. If you ever need photographs, let me know. I’ll make you a good price.”

If she didn’t think of some way to earn more money, there soon would be no paper. Sophie nodded. “Thank you. I will.”

Ethan eyed Miss Swint’s leather bag. “Don’t tell me you hauled all your equipment up here.”

“Just my field camera and my tripod. I want to make a few studies to see how the light hits the ridge at various times of day. I can’t have the sun messing up my photographs, now can I?”

At last Ethan grinned, and Sophie breathed easier, even though his smile was meant for Miss Swint and not for her. “I suppose not.” He swatted at a bug buzzing around his ear. “This ridge runs for miles. How in the world did you find us?”

The photographer produced a slender brass cylinder from her pocket. “With a compass and my spyglass, of course. Take a look.”

Sophie watched Ethan put the spyglass to his eye and follow a bald eagle circling below them. He handed it back. “Quite impressive. I’d enjoy having one of those.”

“Well, you won’t find another one as famous as this. It belonged to Jean Lafitte, or so I was told.” Miss Swint tucked it away. “If you two will excuse me, I need to get set up. The light changes fast up here.” She inclined her head. “Happy to have met you, Miss Caldwell. Don’t forget to call on me for all your photographic needs.”

The lady photographer hurried along the ridge, her leather bag bumping against her hip.

“Ready, Sophie?” Ethan asked.

Without waiting for her reply, he led her down the trail and into the clearing where his horse stood tethered to a sapling. At their approach the horse raised his head, then went back to cropping grass. Sophie watched Ethan stow his knapsack in the rig and fought the powerful emotions surging through her. Kissing Ethan was like tasting chocolate for the first time and wanting more. But now there was no chance that he might one day love her.

“I don’t mind driving you back to the Verandah,” he said.

“Thank you, but I’d rather walk.”

Some indefinable emotion flashed across his face, then was gone. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He got into the rig, clicked his tongue to the horse, and drove away, leaving her to stare after him. She waited until his rig disappeared before beginning the long walk down the mountain. She’d been foolish to hope he would forgive her lie or overlook her uncertain parentage.

He had come from a family where everyone knew who they were and where they belonged.

He would never understand the pain of being blamed for something that was not his fault.

EIGHTEEN

August 30, 1886

Hickory Ridge, Tennessee

Dear Mr. McClure,

On the recommendation of our mutual acquaintance, Mrs. Lydia McPherson of the
Sherman, Texas, Democrat
, I’m writing to inquire whether you might be interested in my writing for your newspaper syndicate. I believe Mrs. McPherson has sent you certain of my pieces, but I have taken the liberty of enclosing herewith a few more that I feel might have wider appeal. For instance, Mr. Bell’s new telephone machine is sure to revolutionize communication. The dedication of the Statue of Liberty certainly engenders any American’s reflections about the meaning and cost of freedom. Finally, I’m enclosing an article about the brigantine
Mary Celeste
and the unknown fate of Captain Briggs, his family, and crew. Sad though it is, people love a mystery. The fact that this one remains unsolved so many years after the ship was found abandoned at sea should appeal to your readers’ sense of curiosity without, I hope, being too sensational.

I am most eager to join your syndicate and I hope for a favorable response.

Sophie R. Caldwell,

Editor and Publisher,

Hickory Ridge Gazette

Sophie blew on the pages to dry the ink, then folded the letter and enclosures for mailing, hoping they would find favor with Mr. McClure’s syndicate.

She had to do something to bring in extra money. A return visit to her advertisers had confirmed her suspicions regarding Mr. Blakely. Although Mr. Pruitt refused to speak another word about it, Miss Hattie had reluctantly admitted Mr. Blakely’s role in her decision. According to the restaurateur, Mr. Blakely forbade his day workers to patronize any establishment that did business with Sophie Caldwell. Since most of Miss Hattie’s steady customers were men and women who took both breakfast and supper in town, she had no choice but to honor the resort owner’s wishes.

Horace Blakely’s actions were akin to blackmail, pure and simple, but how could she fight them? Writing for Mr. McClure’s syndicate and soliciting more subscriptions were her only defenses.

“Sophie?” Caleb rounded her desk, a scowl on his ink-smeared face. “I just came from the depot, and our paper shipment still hasn’t come. It should’ve been here a week ago.”

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Why must everything be so difficult? “I’ll send a wire to the supplier and find out what’s going on.”

“I can do it. I need to stop by the mercantile anyway. Tomorrow is Ma’s birthday, and I want to buy her a present.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“It won’t be much. I’m thinking new hairpins, or a card of buttons maybe. I’m about broke, and Joe and James Henry both
need new shoes.” He fidgeted with his cap. “I reckon I ought to tell you Mr. Blakely won’t take me back, and Mr. Whiting says orders at the mill are way down since construction at Blue Smoke is finished. Reckon you’re stuck with me awhile longer.”

“I wish I could pay you more, but the truth is, I’m about broke myself.” She had spent the last few weeks poring over her ledger and worrying about her dwindling bank balance. If Mr. McClure didn’t buy at least some of her pieces, she’d be out of business by Christmas.

Caleb nodded. “Losing most of our advertisers is a bad break, all right.”

She smiled at his use of the word
our
. She loved that he felt such a personal stake in the paper, despite his need to move on.

Caleb scratched his head and cleared his throat. “I was telling Ma about it the other day, and she said that what you need is an advice column where folks can write in about their problems and you say how to fix them.”

She laughed. “I’m afraid I’m the wrong person for that job. I can’t even fix my own problems.”

“Ma says people—especially ladies, I reckon—would buy subscriptions just to read about how to get a tomato stain out of a favorite dress or how to fix everything from a broken pump handle to a broken heart. She says people read questions from the lovelorn because they like trying to figure out who wrote the letter.”

“I’m certain that part is true. Folks are always curious about other people’s lives.”

Caleb whipped a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “I figured we could post notices at the bank and the mercantile and over at Mrs. Pruitt’s dress shop. Ma says that’s where most of the ladies go for the latest neighborhood goss—uh, news.”

He handed her the paper, covered with his familiar scrawl.

Attention All! Do you have a thorny problem that needs an answer? Are you suffering from dingy laundry or unruly children or, worse of all, a broken heart? Then write to The Answer Lady c/o the Gazette and your problem will be solved.

Sophie mentally corrected his spelling of
worst
and thought about her days at the paper in Dallas. Writing the advice column was considered the lowliest, most undesirable job a true newspaperwoman could undertake. Still, there was no denying the column’s appeal. Mrs. Mills and her assistant could barely keep up with the dozens of letters that poured into the office each week. If writing such a column would save the
Gazette
, she’d hold her nose and do it.

She looked up at Caleb. “Change the
e
in
worse
to a
t
and print some up. Run it on page four of the next issue also. Let’s see what happens.”

He grinned and headed for the printing press.

Sophie picked up her letter to Mr. McClure and her reticule and headed for the post office. Passing the mercantile, she nearly collided with a woman coming out of Mr. Pruitt’s, her arms laden with packages.

“Miss Swint. Excuse me. Good morning.”

The photographer nodded. “Take one of these packages if you don’t mind. I’ve got my glass plates in here, and I don’t want to drop ’em.”

Sophie took the heavy package. “Where to?”

“My rig’s right over there.”

Sophie looked where she pointed and recognized Ethan’s black rig and horse. Her stomach clenched. She had neither seen Ethan nor heard from him in the two weeks since her confession. It felt like two years. But she had no one but herself to blame. To keep her emotions at bay, she’d thrown herself into her work, soliciting more
printing jobs and stockpiling more articles she hoped Mr. McClure might purchase for his syndicate.

“Did Mr. Heyward drive you in this morning?” She followed Miss Swint across the dusty street.

“He offered and I accepted, but he and Mr. B. were in the midst of an awful row this morning, and he told me to come on by myself.” Miss Swint stowed her purchases and straightened her hat. “I didn’t mind. I like solitude.”

Sophie handed her the box of glass plates. “What do you suppose they were arguing about?”

Miss Swint waggled a finger at Sophie. “Oh no you don’t. I’m not about to give you fodder for one of your newspaper stories. I can’t afford to anger Horace Blakely. I need my job.” She climbed into the rig and picked up the reins. “Come on up to the ridge when you get a chance and see how my hut worked out. I’ll take your photograph for free.”

After she drove away, Sophie posted her letter to Mr. McClure and ducked into the mercantile for a box of pencils. She stopped at the bakery and splurged on a couple of sweet buns. Maybe Gillie could tear herself away from the orphanage long enough for a chat and a quick bite to eat.

Exiting the bakery, she nearly tripped over a black-and-tan dog lying on the boardwalk. He gazed up at her and thumped his tail. He looked like the same dog she’d seen earlier in the summer. She bent down. “Hector, is that you?”

At the sound of the name, the hound’s tail swished the ground and he licked her proffered hand. “Are you still hungry, boy?”

She reached into the bag and broke off a bit of sweet bun. No doubt Hector would have preferred a slab of beef, but he wolfed down the pastry, his eyes begging for more. She handed him another bite and started down the street. Hector trotted alongside her, his pink tongue hanging out.

Outside the
Gazette
office, she paused. “You’re just the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, but you need to go on back now and wait for your master. He’ll be lost without you.”

Hector sat on his haunches and stared at her.

She smiled, glad that somebody was happy to see her. “Go on, now, before I fall in love with you.”