Love's Story (13 page)

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.

M
eredith'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:

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. Amelia'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.”