Every Perfect Gift (5 page)

“Of course. I started hanging around the newspaper office back home when I was twelve or thirteen. Mr. Hadley—he’s the owner of the
Inquirer
—showed me how to load type into the tray, but he wouldn’t let me actually run the press till I was older.” She grinned. “It’s a dirty, tedious job, and slower than Christmas. Soon as I start making a profit, I’m going to look into replacing this old press with a more modern one.” She tamped down a stab of uncertainty. “Assuming I actually make a profit. Sometimes I wake up and ask myself why on earth I came back here. Maybe I’m foolish for even trying.”

“Not at all. I’m certain the Lord has a purpose for it.”

She gazed past his shoulder to the street, quiet now in the cool spring afternoon. “Do you really believe that, Robbie? That there is a purpose to everything?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.” He smiled down at her. “I really have to go, but one of these days I want you to meet my wife.”

“I’d love that.”

“Come to services next Sunday. I’ll save you a seat in the first pew.”

He left the office whistling and jogged across the street to his
waiting rig. Sophie watched as he turned the rig for home, her mind whirling. Heavenly days, but Hickory Ridge was all ajumble. People of every stripe milling around town like ants in a hill. Houses going up every which way. Mrs. Lowell dead and gone. Sweet Mr. Chastain all brokenhearted, no doubt, and off to who knew where, while his wife was on her way back to town.

Sophie frowned. Why would the former Mrs. Chastain come back here after so long a time? There was no accounting for human behavior and no telling what might happen next. But one thing was for sure: Lucy Partridge wouldn’t have room for her at the Verandah. With Blue Smoke set to open in a matter of weeks, every room was taken or already reserved.

She grabbed her hat and shawl, locked the office, and headed for Mr. Tanner’s livery. His rates were outrageous, but the Rutledge farm was too far to walk. Farther along the street, Eli McCracken emerged from his office and headed for Miss Hattie’s. Sophie’s stomach groaned. What she wouldn’t give for one of Miss Hattie’s legendary Sunday dinners. But Carrie Rutledge was expecting her.

She entered the livery, breathing in the familiar, dusty scent of hay, horses, and manure. “Mr. Tanner?”

He shuffled to the front of the building, wiping his hands on a faded towel. “Miss Caldwell. What can I do for you?”

“A horse and rig, please. That little chestnut mare I had last week will be perfect.”

“She’s a beauty all right, but I sold her yesterday to Blue Smoke. Mr. Rutledge usually takes care of anything related to the Blue Smoke horses, but Mr. Heyward himself come down from his mountaintop for a change and made me a right good offer for her. He said she’ll make a good addition to that fancy riding stable they’re building up there.”

She fumbled in her reticule for her cash. “Mr. Heyward doesn’t come to town that often?”

“Not hardly at all. Usually that young redheaded fellow shows up at the bank or the mercantile, but occasionally the boss man makes an appearance.”

Sophie nodded and secured her hat against a sudden gust of late-March wind. “I’d love to stay and chat, but—”

“Oh, sure. You need a horse and buggy. Well, I’ve got Miss Pearl over there.” He jerked his thumb toward a silver-gray horse munching hay, her tail swishing flies. “She ain’t the fastest thing on four legs, but she’s reliable.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

While the liveryman harnessed Miss Pearl, Sophie retrieved Carrie’s letter from her pocket and reread the directions to the Rutledge farm. The train whistle sounded just as Mr. Tanner led the horse and rig into the thin spring sunlight and helped Sophie inside. “Where you headed?”

“The Rutledge place. Mrs. Rutledge says it’s adjacent to Mr. Gilman’s. I hope it won’t be too hard to find.”

“You’ll see the turnoff five miles or so past the train depot. The road’s in bad shape, though. We had a lot of rain last month, and the ruts are pretty deep.” He patted the side of the old rig, which had seen better days. “Just watch out that you don’t damage my equipment. I’d hate to charge you extra for repairs.”

Sophie flicked the reins and headed out of town. The livery-man’s mention of Ethan Heyward had set her reporter’s mind to working again. Why did Mr. Heyward keep to himself? Was something untoward going on at Blue Smoke, or was he merely one of those men, like Wyatt, who liked to keep a close eye on his interests?

She passed a Negro family on their way home from church, the women and girls dressed in bright calicos, the men and boys in denim pants and bleached white shirts. All were barefoot. A couple of the young girls offered a shy wave as their wagon and her rig
negotiated the rutted road. By the time she finally arrived at the Rutledges’ place, her dress was coated in a thin layer of dust and her mouth was parched.

The door opened and Carrie Daly Rutledge rushed out, her copper curls bound in a pale blue ribbon. “Sophie.” Carrie wrapped both arms around Sophie and held her tight. “Our darling girl, here at last. Come in. I want you to meet Griff and Charlotte.”

Sophie followed Carrie into the spacious, light-filled cottage. A bank of windows faced a lush meadow where five or six horses stood placidly cropping grass.

“Griff? Darling?”

“So this is the Caldwells’ famous ward?” An extraordinarily handsome dark-haired man crossed in front of the fireplace and clasped both Sophie’s hands. “Welcome to our home. Carrie has talked of little else but your arrival ever since we found out you were coming back here.”

Sophie dropped her gaze. She loved the Caldwells with everything that was in her, and they loved her too. But Mr. Rutledge’s use of the word
ward
reminded her that she didn’t belong to anyone. Not really. Despite all the advantages Wyatt and Ada had provided her, the one thing they couldn’t give her was a heritage. She was still a muddlebones, a mongrel, an orphan with two borrowed names and no real knowledge of who she was or where she came from. Sometimes a fragment of a song or story, a half-remembered dream, would feel oddly familiar, but her attempts to connect it to anything real brought only a vague sadness.

“We’re delighted to see you.” Mr. Rutledge, his dark eyes radiating warmth, kissed her hand just as a tiny replica of Carrie danced into the room, one shoe missing, her hair a tumble of dark curls.

“Papa, look what I found.” She held out a fistful of violets.

Griff laughed and scooped her into his arms. “Where have you been, my sweet? And where on earth is your shoe?”

The girl’s mother watched the exchange, obviously smitten with them both. “Sophie, this is our daughter, Charlotte.”

“Hello.” Sophie smiled at the little girl, who reminded her so much of the Caldwells’ young daughter, Lilly, that a pang of homesickness shot through her. She nodded toward the meadow. “I was just admiring your papa’s horses. Back home in Texas I have a young mare who is often too spirited for her own good. I have a horse named Cherokee too. She’s almost too old to ride now, but she’s very gentle, and I love her more than anything.”

Griff set his daughter on her feet. Arms akimbo, Charlotte cocked one hip. “I’d want to ride the spirited one.”

“Would you? Do you know how to ride yet?”

“Yes’m. I have a pony, but Mama won’t let me ride her unless Papa is with me. ’Cause I fell off Majestic one time and bumped my head, and I couldn’t even breathe.”

“I heard about Majestic,” Sophie said. “I heard he won the very first race ever held in Hickory Ridge.”

Charlotte nodded. “Mama gots a picture of it. I’ll show you.”

She raced from the room. Mr. Rutledge smiled and caught his wife’s eye. “Darling, I hate to rush things, but we should eat soon. I need to go back up to Blue Smoke.”

“Oh, Griff, must you? On Sunday?”

“I’m afraid so. One of the riding trails still needs clearing, and I want to check on that new bay gelding. He’s favoring a hind foot, and I don’t want to continue training him until he’s completely well.”

Carrie turned to Sophie. “My husband is in charge of the entire equestrian program at Blue Smoke. As much as he loves the work, I do sometimes wish he weren’t quite so indispensable.”

“In another year or so I won’t have to spend so much time there,” Griff told Sophie. “I do enjoy it, but I’m looking forward to having more time to devote to my own stables.”

“Here it is!” Charlotte ran to Sophie and handed her a framed photograph. “That’s my papa and Majestic. I think he’s the handsomest ever.”

Griff laughed and ruffled his daughter’s curls. “Are you talking about me or the horse?”

Carrie smiled and led Sophie to a chair at the table. “You just sit right here and relax. Everything is ready and warming on the stove. I’ll be right back.”

FOUR

Ethan Heyward tapped on the glass and opened the door to the
Gazette
office. “Anybody home?”

“Mr. Heyward.” Sophie grabbed a rag, wiped the ink from her fingers, and removed the long apron she wore in the dusty composing room. Seating herself behind her desk, she motioned him into the chair across from her. “May I help you?”

He lowered his lanky frame into the chair and crossed his ankles. “I was in town and thought I should pay a call.”

Aware of his intent gaze, she glanced away. Why hadn’t she taken more care getting dressed this morning? She’d worn her old faded calico and pinned her hair up every which way, without even looking into the mirror. Ada was forever reminding her about her appearance, but she was usually too intent upon her work to bother. She should have paid more attention this morning, because Mr. Heyward was still watching her, his blue eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles full of undisguised interest. Despite her unanswered questions about the goings-on up at Blue Smoke, she couldn’t help noticing that the expression in his eyes and the slight dimple in his chin made him seem at once studious and playful—a most attractive combination.

He swept one hand around the sunlit office. “I assume you’re open for business.”

“Yes. I’m behind schedule because I took half a day getting settled in at the ladies’ hotel and catching up on my correspondence, but the first issue is almost ready for printing.”

“Glad to hear it. We can’t have a real town without a newspaper.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you’d give me an advance look?”

“Then you’d have no need to buy a copy, would you?”

“I suppose not,” he said, smiling. “But if we’re to do business together in the future—”

Understanding dawned. “I see. You expect to control what I write. A quid pro quo.”

“I wouldn’t call it that. Let’s just say I like to be sure that whatever is printed about Blue Smoke is accurate.”

She felt her blood heating. “That’s an insult to any newspaper writer worth her salt. I trained at a big city newspaper, Mr. Heyward, a very respected one. Of course my reporting is accurate.”

He shifted in his chair. “I don’t mean to offend you. But one of the men told me that you came up to the resort with the sheriff the other night when that little skirmish broke out. To someone who doesn’t understand how a large operation like Blue Smoke works, such a scuffle might give the wrong impression.”

“I didn’t get the wrong impression, but maybe you will clear something up for me.”

“Certainly.”

“When I toured there last week, you took pains to show me the grand ballroom and the twenty-four bedrooms and the thirty bathrooms and the grounds, but I learned very little about where the men live and work, what their lives are like.”

“I didn’t suppose it would interest you. Hardly anyone cares about how a project gets done, as long as it comes in on time and under budget.” He leaned forward. “Besides, the workers’ quarters are no place for a lady. I didn’t wish to offend you. I’m the first to admit the shacks are not all that fancy. But the men who are here
without their families have no reason to come and go from the mountain every day. It’s more efficient for them to sleep at the site.”

“And less expensive for you and Mr. Blakely too.”

“We’re paying more than fair wages. And we’ve no shortage of men wanting to work here. In fact, I’ve a few more men due in on this afternoon’s train.”

“So that’s why you’re on one of your rare visits to town?”

“Who says they’re rare?”

She arched her brow and rose. “Confidential sources. Thank you for stopping by, but I must get back to work. Please don’t worry, Mr. Heyward. I’ve reported the events accurately.”

He rose and a small leather notebook fell from his pocket. Before he could retrieve it, she scooped it up and handed it back to him. “I intend to build the
Gazette
into the best paper in the region. I’m not planning on any sensationalism. But I will offer my opinion on things.”

“That’s your prerogative, I suppose.” He tucked the notebook away and consulted his pocket watch. “The train isn’t due in for another half hour, and I was heading over to Miss Hattie’s for a bite to eat. Is there any chance you might join me?”

She considered. Work awaited, but Ethan Heyward, despite his take-charge attitude, charmed her. And she was hungry. This morning she’d overslept and had headed straight for work, bypassing the pot of sticky oatmeal bubbling on the stove in Lucy’s kitchen.