Every Perfect Gift (3 page)

“And, Mr. Heyward? Just a word of warning, sir. Mr. Blakely arrives tomorrow afternoon.” The secretary waved a telegram in the air. “It says here he’ll be wanting another powwow with you about the delay on the passenger car.”

Ethan heaved a sigh, unrolled his sleeves, and slipped into his gray wool jacket. “One problem at a time, Tim. Show Mr. Caldwell in.”

“’Tisn’t a
Mr
. Caldwell, sir. She’s a girl.” The secretary grinned. “Pretty one too.”

Ethan frowned. “Show her in.”

He was prepared to be annoyed at having been misled, but one look at the young woman who stood framed in his doorway dispelled that thought. The only word that came to mind was
breathtaking
. He took her in—creamy skin, high cheekbones, eyes the most unusual shade of green. Glossy black hair tucked neatly into a stylish hat. A willowy figure. In the golden light coming through the Palladian windows, she reminded him of the portrait of his mother that had once graced his boyhood home.

“Mr. Heyward?” She crossed the carpet and inclined her head, a smile playing on her lips. “I’m—”

He bowed slightly. “S. R. Caldwell.”

A faint blush crept into her cheeks. “Yes. Thank you for seeing me. I’m looking forward to touring the resort. The entrance is quite grand.”

“Isn’t it? The doors came from an abandoned castle in Scotland. My partner—”

“Excuse me.” S. R. Caldwell opened her bag and took out a notebook and pen. “Your partner—that would be Mr. Blakely? Mr. Horace Blakely?”

“That’s right.” He waited while she scribbled, fascinated at the way her slender fingers gripped the steel pen.

She smiled up at him, her green eyes sparkling. His heart lurched. He lost his train of thought.

She flipped to a clean sheet in her small notebook. “Please continue, Mr. Heyward.”

He cleared his throat. “Where was I? Oh yes, the doors. Horace—Mr. Blakely—happened upon the ruin during a tramping excursion and tracked down the owner, who was only too glad to sell the entire edifice for a song. We managed to salvage many of the old stones, some of the timbers, and that magnificent set of doors. As best we can tell, they date from the fifteenth century.”

He watched her scribble some more. “Miss Caldwell, would you care for tea before we begin our tour? And perhaps your driver would like some too. The wind is sharp today, and it’s quite a trip up here.”

The reporter laughed, an infectious, bell-like sound. “I drove myself, Mr. Heyward, and yes, thank you. Tea would be delightful. If you don’t mind my asking more questions while we pour.”

Ethan nodded to his secretary, who scurried away, and motioned his guest to a chair.

“I’m happy to answer any question you may have. If you’ll answer one for me.”

She looked up, suddenly wary. “What kind of question?”

“I’m wondering why you took such care to disguise your identity. And why the newspaper owner would send someone so young up this mountain all by herself. Seems to me he should have come in your stead or, at the very least, provided you a suitable escort.”

“That’s two questions—and an opinion.”

He smiled. “So it is.”

She studied him, her expression calm, and folded her hands in her lap. “I signed my queries to you using my initials so as not to prejudice you against me from the outset. Here we are closing in on a brand-new century, and yet you’d be surprised at how many people don’t want to give women a chance, no matter our qualifications.”

He toyed with a small paperweight. “I can imagine.”

She bobbed her head, and the white flower on her hat fluttered. “I’m not one for beating around the bush, Mr. Heyward. I may as well tell you I’m the owner of the
Gazette
too. There is no one else.”

He considered himself a pretty good judge of women, and this one couldn’t be many years past twenty-one. Even if she turned out to be a crack reporter, which he doubted—fine reporters, like fine wood, needed seasoning—what in the Sam Hill made her think she could run a newspaper, even a small one, all by herself?

But she was already on the defensive. Now was not the time to bring up
that
subject. “Do you mind yet another question? What does the S. R. stand for? After all, you know my name. Doesn’t seem fair that I don’t know yours.”

Another lightning-quick smile. “Sophie Robillard.”

He nodded. “Thank you. Ah, here comes tea.”

He waited while O’Brien set down the tea tray and then quietly withdrew, shutting the door softly. “Shall I pour for you?”

“Yes, please.”

He filled their cups, passed lemon and sugar, and took a long sip. “Now I’m all yours. Ask away.”

Twenty minutes later, he recanted his assessment of her reportorial skills. This girl . . . woman . . . extracted facts and figures about the resort from him that he hadn’t even realized he knew. By the time the teapot was empty, his mind swam with all he had told her. And with the intriguing realization that S. R. Caldwell was, in every significant way, more than his match.

A train whistle sounded as another load of furnishings arrived via the railway that had been built to ferry men and materials up to the ridge from the station in town. He rose. “Shall we take that tour now? I don’t want you driving back down the mountain after dark.”

“Oh, no need to worry about me. I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe.” Clasping her notebook to her chest, she rose and followed him from his office into the grand lobby.

Something in her manner irked him. “Tell me, Miss Caldwell, are you always so sure of yourself?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Wide green eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, held his.

“How can you be sure you’ll come to no harm? Bad things happen to people when they are least expecting it.”

“I know that. But don’t you think it’s better to assume the best will happen?” She indicated the room with a sweep of her arm. “Perhaps we’d better get back to the tour.”

“As you wish.” They continued along the broad hallway. “The ceiling was finished only last week. It was painted by Joshua Olmstead of New York. The flowers depicted in each panel are native plants that grow here on the mountain, and each is outlined in twenty-four-carat gold leaf.”

Sophie Robillard flipped to a new page and made a quick sketch. If she was impressed with the paintings of blue gentians, yellow sunflowers, daisies, violets, and purple asters or with the carved moldings and the Oriental silk runners lying atop gleaming oak floors, she hid it well. She merely observed and scribbled.

Ethan frowned. Granted, reporters were supposed to be objective and impartial. But would it kill her to express a little enthusiasm for his masterpiece?

He led her from the lobby to the main ballroom and then to the east wing to see a suite of guest rooms. He took his time describing the antique furnishings, the expensive European linens adorning the canopied bed, the rosewood inlays in the fireplace mantel. She took in the brocade sofas, the Italian silk draperies framing the Palladian windows, her expression one of benign interest. Though his irritation persisted, he couldn’t stop staring at her. Perhaps if he talked long enough, darkness would overtake them and he’d have to see the beautiful young reporter home himself.

Leaving her horse and rig at the livery, Sophie hurried to the inn as darkness fell. She was chilled from her long drive back from Blue Smoke, but at the same time she felt alive, energized. Ethan Heyward had been a very pleasant surprise. She’d detected some initial irritation at discovering her gender, but to his credit, he had taken her seriously and provided her with enough material for several stories. And there was no point in denying it: he was quite handsome—tall and well muscled, with thick brown hair and an engaging smile. Behind his thin, gold-rimmed spectacles were deep blue eyes that reminded her of the sky reflected in a clear mountain creek. He had about him an air of complete confidence. He moved easily between the hushed, rarefied atmosphere of the gilded resort and the rough-and-tumble army of men working to complete the buildings that were scattered across the lawns like pearls across a tapestry.

At the end of the afternoon, he had invited her to pay a return visit. Already she looked forward to it.

“Evening, Miss Caldwell.” The hotel clerk handed her a stack of letters. “Mail came today.”

“Thank you.” She flipped though the stack, looking for an envelope bearing Ada’s neat handwriting. A letter from home would be the perfect ending to this auspicious day, even though Ada’s descriptions of everything going on at the ranch—Wade and Lilly’s antics, Wyatt’s latest cattle-buying trips—made her long for the familiar.

“Miss Lucy Partridge from over at the ladies’ hotel came by to tell you your room is ready. You can move in anytime.” He pulled a face. “Sure will miss you, but I reckon it’s more proper for you to live at the Verandah.”

“So I’m told.” Personally she saw no purpose in having to move. Wasn’t one hotel like another? But Wyatt and Ada had insisted she
live at the Verandah. At one time she could have lived in the house Wyatt inherited from his Aunt Lillian and deeded to Ada before their marriage. But Ada had sold the house the year before and donated the money to the Ladies Suffrage Society. Even if it were available, it sat seven miles from town, too far to make living there practical. So the Verandah it was. She tucked away her mail and headed for the stairs.

“Oh, miss,” the clerk said. “I nearly forgot. Railway agent says your shipment arrived this afternoon. You need to arrange for a delivery.”

“I will. Thank you, Mr. Foster.”

“You don’t want any dinner, miss? Before the dining room closes?”

“I had tea at Blue Smoke. I’m not really very hungry.”

He whistled. “Well, well. Tea at Blue Smoke. Is it as fancy as people say?”

“Yes. It’s very grand.”

The clerk grinned. “Too fancy for my blood. But I don’t reckon I ought to worry about it. Ain’t likely that ordinary folks like me can afford to stay there anyway. I can’t—”

The door crashed open, and a disheveled man ran inside brandishing a shotgun. The clerk spun around. “Lord have mercy, Trotter. What in the world’s going on?”

“Sheriff McCracken says to round up every man you can find and git on up to Blue Smoke. They’s a riot going on.”

The clerk darted from behind the desk. “You’ll have to excuse me, miss. I got to go.”

A riot?
Sophie’s reporter’s instincts kicked in. Everything this afternoon had seemed so calm. What could have triggered such a disturbance?

She stuffed her mail into her reticule and drew her shawl tightly about her shoulders.

“I’m coming with you.”

THREE

Sophie followed the clerk and Mr. Trotter into the street where half a dozen men were gathered by torchlight, rounding up horses and guns. In the middle of the chaos stood Sheriff Eli McCracken, barking orders.

“Hurry up with those—” He broke off when he spied Sophie standing next to Mr. Foster, her notebook propped on the hitching rail outside the inn. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?”

Her pen stilled. “Reporting on the riot, of course. There isn’t time to retrieve my rig. I’ll have to ride up to Blue Smoke with one of you.”

McCracken shook his head. “Absolutely not. Wyatt Caldwell would have my head on a platter if you got hurt.”

“Sheriff?” Mr. Trotter jammed his brown felt hat onto his head and swung into his saddle. “We ought to get going.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Sophie snapped her notebook shut and looked up at Wyatt’s old friend. “I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe with you.”

“Out of the question.” McCracken mounted up, saddle leather creaking, a torch in one hand. “Let’s head out,” he called. “Trotter, Foster, you two take the lead. The rest of you, follow me. We’ll take the old logging trail and come in from behind.”

Sophie grabbed the reins. “Then I suppose I’ll have to take whatever mount is available from the livery and ride up there all alone. Unarmed. In the dark.”

McCracken sighed. “This is dangerous business. And besides, it isn’t proper.” He looked down pointedly at her skirt.

“It’s dark, Mr. McCracken. No one will be scandalized. And this is my first big story. Don’t make me miss out just because we’re short a horse.”