Margaret Brownley (33 page)

Ignoring the cat, Crankshaw wasted no time in stating the purpose of his visit. “I came to make a proposition.”

Her heart sank. Not again. She set her camera on the table. “Mr. Crankshaw, I already told you I’m not interested in marriage.”

He held up his hand and the cat hissed louder. “All I ask is that you give me the courtesy of hearing what I have to say.” He glanced around. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Eh . . . I really am in a hurry,” she said, clamping down on her mouth so as to not go into unnecessary detail.

“This won’t take long,” he assured her. Eyeing the tom, he circled around the sofa to avoid coming in contact with the animal. He sat, hat in hand.

Scooping Extra up with one hand, Lucy patted him on the head and set him outside on the porch. The cat flicked its tail and sauntered away in obvious disgust. Lucy wished she could do likewise.

Crankshaw waited for her to take a seat opposite him. “I just had a meeting with the Weatherbees,” he said. “As you know, Millard’s running for state senator and it could be a tight race.”

She listened politely, more out of curiosity than anything. Politics held no real interest for her. It wasn’t as if she could vote. Mrs. Hitchcock insisted that it was only a matter of time before Texas followed the lead of the Wyoming Territory and gave women the vote, but Lucy suspected it wouldn’t happen without a battle, and maybe not even in her lifetime.

Crankshaw droned on. “Mrs. Weatherbee expressed concern about the town’s lack of a newspaper, now that Mr. Barnes is gone. She believes it will be difficult for her son to get the support he needs in his hometown without one.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” she said, glancing at the mantle clock.

“Let me finish.” He sat back. “I’m considering purchasing the newspaper myself.”

This surprised her. Crankshaw was an oilman. What did he know about running a newspaper?

As if to guess her thoughts, he continued. “Business is business whether you’re running an oil company or a newspaper. The same principles apply. Barnes, as I’m sure you’ll agree, was not only a bad editor but a bad businessman. He didn’t even have a regular publishing schedule. The
Gazette
is owned by some out-of-town investor who is willing to sell for the right price.”

“I see,” she said. “But I still don’t know what this has to do with me.”

He twirled his derby. “Yesterday I walked through the place as a potential buyer. Some of the equipment needs replacing and, of course, I’ll need to hire someone to run it.” He paused a moment. “I would like to offer you the position of editor.”

Lucy could hardly contain her astonishment. She wouldn’t have been more shocked had he asked her to drill for oil. “W-why me?” she stammered at last.

“I was aware of your . . . ability to take photographs,” he explained, “but it wasn’t until I came across an article in Barnes’s desk about the wild man that I knew you could write.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.” Her mind raced with excitement. Editor? She couldn’t believe it. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine herself an editor of a newspaper. Not only would the job help her pay for a new church, but it would also help with Caleb’s education expenses. If only the offer hadn’t come from Crankshaw.

She looked at him askew, not sure she could trust him. “I thought you didn’t believe in women pursuing occupational endeavors.”

“I still believe a woman’s
primary
function is home and hearth,” he said. “However, times are changing, and I understand other towns employ women editors.” Not even his studied composure could hide the look of triumph in his eyes. Obviously he was confident she would accept his offer.

“How much control would I have?” she asked, masking her reservations with a businesslike voice.
Please don’t let this be a trick.

“As much as you want. Providing, of course, the newspaper doesn’t lower its standards and become a journal of feminine fashions and household hints.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe a household hint exists that could match Barnes’s low standards,” she said.

He laughed. “You may be right.” He raked her up and down, his gaze lingering a tad too long on her neckline.

She rose abruptly. “Thank you for your generous offer. As you can imagine, I need time to think about it.” She wanted to accept immediately but something made her hold back.

He stood too. “Take all the time you need,” he said with a magnanimous air that seemed forced.

She walked across the room and opened the door. “I’m sorry, but I really do have another engagement.”

“I understand.” He donned his hat. “Oh, by the way. My offer comes with one stipulation.”

“Only one?”

“Only one,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You will have to accept my proposal of marriage.”

So it was a trick after all. It didn’t surprise her but she was nonetheless disappointed. He had effectively dashed any hope she had of accomplishing her financial goals and pursuing her profession. She already knew her answer, but he had already donned his hat and was halfway down the walkway. She planned to turn down his offer, of course, but she had no intention of shouting after him.

Extra had no such qualms. The tomcat arched its back and gave Crankshaw the full benefit of a hissy fit.

Nodding approval, Lucy muttered beneath her breath. “My sentiments exactly.”

The train hadn’t yet arrived when Lucy pulled her horse and wagon behind a long line of vehicles parked in front of the station.

The number of people gathered on the platform surprised her. It appeared as if the whole town had turned out to greet Timber Joe’s bride-to-be. Even the ladies of the newly formed suffragette movement were on hand. Even more surprising was what Jenny and her sisters had done to the train station on such short notice. The platform was strung with red, white, and blue bunting and American flags. Baskets of colorful flowers hung from every post. Never had the depot looked so inviting.

Mrs. Taylor led a parade of enthusiastic supporters. Chanting in high-pitched voices, they held their banners high. “Women’s rights, women’s rights.”

Camera and tripod in hand, Lucy fought her way along the crowded platform until she spotted Barrel, Redd, and Timber Joe.

Timber Joe paced in a circle like a dog chasing its tail. She’d never seen him look so nervous.

He came to a halt and greeted her with a frown. “Can’t you make those women stop? The way they’re carrying on, they’re gonna frighten Annabelle away.”

“I doubt it,” she said, looking him up and down. If anything could frighten his potential bride away it was his faded Confederate clothes. “You’re in uniform.”

Redd shrugged. “Me and Barrel here tried to get him to change but he would have none of it.”

Timber Joe stuck out his chin. “Annabelle can either take me as I am or not take me at all. Besides, she saw my photograph. She knows what she’s getting.”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Lucy muttered beneath her breath. She glanced at Redd and Barrel, but neither man offered a solution.

Sighing in frustration, Lucy set up her tripod and attached the camera, but she didn’t have much hope of using it. Annabelle would most likely take one look at Timber Joe and leave town on the next train.

The chanting grew louder and people kept coming. Sarah and Pastor Wells drove up in their wagon, followed by Marshal Armstrong and his wife, Jenny. Even Ma Stephens was on hand to watch the momentous occasion despite her disapproval of trains.

Timber Joe lifted his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Can’t a man meet his woman without the whole town showing up?” He had to shout to be heard above the Suffra-Quilters.

“We’re happy for you,” Lucy said. She nudged him gently with her hand on his shoulder in an effort to tease him out of his bad humor.

Barrel poked Redd with his elbow. “Better watch out. Here comes Miss Hogg.”

Redd’s face turned the color of the ketchup stain on his boiled shirt, but he said nothing.

Emma Hogg threaded her way through the throng and joined them. “I wouldn’t miss this day for the world,” she said, addressing her comments to Timber Joe. She didn’t even look at Redd.

The distant sound of a train whistle drew a ripple of excitement from the waiting crowd and a look of terror on Timber Joe’s face. The Suffra-Quilters, led by Mrs. Taylor, continued their loud chants.

The rumbling sound grew louder as the train slid into the station and came to a grinding halt. Steam hissed across the platform and heads craned as a uniformed conductor disembarked, followed by a stream of passengers.

“What does she look like?” Lucy asked, eyeing a young woman in a blue traveling suit who had just stepped onto the platform. The woman was met by a man and a child and the three walked off together. “What color hair does she have?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Timber Joe grew more anxious with each passing moment. He ran a finger along the frayed collar of his uniform. Sweat rolled down his face. “I told her not to send a photograph. I wanted to be surprised.”

The newly arrived travelers began leaving the depot. Standing on tiptoes, Lucy craned her neck to see over the fast-thinning crowd. Had the woman named Annabelle changed her mind?

As if to read her thoughts, Timber Joe said, “I guess she’s not coming.” He shrugged with an air of indifference as if Annabelle’s failure to appear was of no consequence. But Lucy could see past his façade.

“Maybe she sent the letter
before
she got my photograph,” he said. “Then when she saw what I looked like she changed her mind about coming.”

What Timber Joe suggested was a real possibility and Lucy felt terrible. She had been so certain his photograph would convince Annabelle of his fine character. “I’m so sorry.”

Timber Joe grunted but said nothing.

One last passenger stepped off the train and Lucy blinked in disbelief. The man was dressed in what looked like an old army suit and flat-visor hat. From where she stood, the traveler looked enough like Timber Joe to be his twin.

The uniformed stranger looked around, then waved and hurried toward them.

“Timber Joe, is that you?” came a voice that was clearly soprano. It was then that Lucy realized that the uniformed stranger was a woman.

A hush settled over the remaining spectators. Even the Suffra-Quilters stopped marching to stare in silence at the oddly dressed woman.

“Annabelle!” Timber Joe said, his face lighting up. “Is that you?”

“’Course it’s me. Who did you think it was?”

He looked her up and down. “But you’re dressed like a Confederate soldier,” he sputtered.

“That’s because I fought in the war. Just like you.” She lowered her voice. “I disguised myself as a man and fought just as hard as one. Of course that was before I was found out and discharged for
gender incompatibility
.”

“You’re joking, right?” Timber Joe asked. “You fought in the war?”

“General-
lee
, I don’t make jokes,” she replied, laughing at her own pun.

Timber Joe laughed too.

Annabelle looked him up and down and nodded with approval. “When I got your photograph, I knew you were the man for me.”

Timber Joe got all red in the face. “I knew you’d like it,” he said with a shy grin. He then saluted her and she saluted him back.

“Don’t move,” Lucy said, stepping behind her camera. This was one picture she didn’t want to miss.

Sarah, Jenny, and all eleven Suffra-Quilters hurried forward to greet Timber Joe’s future bride. If her unconventional dress didn’t win the hearts of the townsfolk, her friendly personality did.

Ma nodded approvingly. “It’s like I always said. God made a lid for every pot.” She gave Lucy a maternal look. “Even for you.”

Lucy smiled but inside she was dying, dying because the only man for her was David and he’d made it clear they had no future together.

While the others plied Annabelle with questions, Emma Hogg inched closer to Lucy. “I wish to make an appointment to have my photograph taken,” she said primly. She glared at Redd. “It’s high time I found myself a lid . . . uh . . . husband. I’ve signed up with one of those marriage catalogs. If it worked for Timber Joe, no doubt it will work for me.”