Truth Be Told (20 page)

T
he rhythmic clank of the Washington press measured out a steady beat in the background as Amelia hunched over her desk, her head resting on the heels of her hands. Looking down at the mound of papers that littered the desk, she let out a low moan. She had spent every waking moment since Ben's visit the afternoon before going through every scrap of information she could pull from the files that had anything to do with Great Western.

The discovery of the forged documents had galvanized her into action, hoping that revelation would prove to be the catalyst they needed to make the last pieces of the puzzle fall into place. But it hadn't worked out that way.

There had to be some connecting thread tying the forgeries to her father's concerns, but it remained just beyond her reach. As obvious as it appeared that Great Western had acquired those properties by fraudulent means, she had no way of proving that without the documents Ben had returned to the company's files. Anything she might report about their underhanded activity would be a baseless accusation. The headache she'd been fighting since midmorning assaulted her temples
with renewed strength, and she kneaded the sides of her head with her fingertips.

She had asked Homer to finish setting her story on the concert and told him to leave some space on the front page in case the big story she hoped for materialized in time to go to print. Instead, here she was again, pushing right up to the deadline with no solid information.

The printing press clanked on, adding to her guilt. Seeing how intent she was upon her quest, Homer had taken all her chores upon himself in addition to his own . . . again.

The rhythmic sound of the press ceased, and she heard Homer cross the floor to the office door. Looking up, she saw him knock on the doorframe with a somewhat gun-shy expression on his face. She couldn't blame him, after the way she'd snapped at him earlier that morning when all he wanted was to know where she wanted to place Walt Ingram's new ad for the hardware store.

She made a conscious effort to keep the impatience from her voice when she spoke. “What is it, Homer?”

Instead of entering the office as he usually did, he remained in the doorway. “I just finished the inside pages. I'll need to get the front page locked up soon if we plan to get the paper out on time. I've saved some space, the way you asked me to. Is the story ready yet?”

“No.” Hearing the disgust in her tone, Amelia forced herself to speak calmly. “I don't have a story. I thought I was close, but I just haven't pulled it all together yet. And I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did before. My head has been throbbing most of the day, but that's no excuse, and I apologize.”

Worry twisted Homer's face as he stepped to her desk.
“What are we going to put in its place? We need something to fill that hole.”

Seeing his distress only increased her self-reproach. They might not meet their deadline. And if the
Gazette
was late for the first time in its history, it would be all her fault. “I don't suppose we have anything on reserve that we could use instead? Have you heard anything more about that missing railroad man?”

“Not a thing. As far as I know, they're still looking, but they haven't turned anything up yet.”

“What about that story on the sawmill? I've already made some notes.” Hope flickered, then died away. “But there isn't enough copy to fill the space.”

Homer shook his head. “Not unless . . .” His voice trailed off, and he clamped his lips shut.

“Unless what?” Her irritation resurfaced.

He drew his brows together. “I got a tip this morning, but I wasn't going to mention it.”

Her interest quickened. “A tip? When? I didn't hear anyone come in.” She'd been so engrossed in her research, she must have missed hearing the bell.

“Not here. And not in person, it was just a note. Someone must have slipped it under my door during the night. I found it when I was getting ready for work.”

Amelia's nose crinkled. Had she detected the faint tinge of alcohol when Homer spoke? She opened her mouth to question him, but snapped her lips shut when a flash of pain streaked across her head. She closed her eyes and clamped her hand against the ache, as if she could hold the stabbing torment at bay.

A moment later, she opened her eyes and blinked slowly,
relieved when the pain ebbed somewhat. She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to the issue at hand. Now was not the time to speak to Homer about his tippling. She would wait until she was in a better frame of mind and they weren't under deadline.

She forced herself to sit up straight. “Something about Great Western? Why didn't you tell me?”

He shook his head. “It was about the sawmill, but there was no name on it. We can't take an anonymous note as fact, so I didn't want to bother you with it.”

“Something to do with the sawmill?” Amelia's thoughts whirled. “Then go see if you can find some verification. If you hurry, it might be enough to flesh out that story and make it work after all.”

Homer glanced at the clock. Amelia felt as though she could read his thoughts. Going out in pursuit of news would eat up precious time he needed to prepare and print the first page if he hoped to get the paper out on schedule. By all rights, she should be the one out chasing down that story.

But she couldn't. Not when she had to learn the truth about Great Western before Merrick decided to divulge what he knew about her father.

“I guess I'd best get going.” Homer's lips tightened in a parody of a smile.
“Tempus fugit
.
”

She nodded and forced a tiny smile of her own. “Thank you for being such a wonderful help. I'll make it up to you.”

And she would, she vowed to herself as she heard the door close behind him. Once she'd cleared up this mystery, she would be able to turn her full attention on her duties at the
Gazette
again.

Ben had been puzzled by the locations of the various parcels they'd discussed the day before. Maybe it would help if she could see where they were in relation to one another. Pulling a sheet of paper and a pencil from the desk drawer, she drew a rough sketch showing the locations of the properties. As an afterthought, she added the parcel her father bought from Virgil Sparks.

Now
what?
She stared at the paper, trying to ignore the pain behind her eyes, willing herself to see some pattern that would bring everything into focus. The Seaver property was adjacent to her father's, not far from the reservoir Bart McCaffrey built. Or the land Martin Gilbreth recently sold.

She remembered her father taking her on picnics in that area when she was younger. He had pointed out a number of mining claims on the hillsides nearby. Her interest quickened. Minerals were abundant in that area. The need for a reservoir would make sense, with Great Western's plans to start a hydraulic mining operation.

But what about the other purchases they had made? She tapped her pencil against the paper. Ben was right—the Rogers property lay some distance away and consisted of nothing but acres of trees. As far as she could remember, no one had staked a mining claim anywhere nearby.

And then there was Josiah Smith's property, even farther away, out in an open stretch of country to the southwest.

She set the pencil aside and bent over the crude map. Every instinct told her she was on the right track. The answers lay in front of her, almost close enough to touch, if only she could think clearly enough to see it.

Pressing her fingertips against her temples, she massaged
her forehead lightly, wishing she could rub away the weight of responsibility that crushed her, along with the pain.

Maybe she wasn't cut out for running a newspaper, after all. There were simply too many things to try to balance all at once, and she seemed to be doing a dismal job of it. She'd saddled Homer with her responsibilities on top of his own while she sat glued to the desk, obsessed by a desire to ferret out the secrets of the Great Western Investment Company. But in the grand scheme of things, that was the more important issue. Wasn't it?

Her father wouldn't have entrusted the
Gazette
to her if he hadn't thought her capable. Then again, he only saw her during the summer months. And a brief spell as his assistant was far different from trying to run the paper on her own. Considering the amount of time they had been separated over the years, maybe he didn't know her as well as he thought he did.

The memory of Millie Brown's visit sprang to her mind, unbidden.
Maybe I didn't know
him
as well as I thought, either.

What would she do if word of that woman's business partnership with her father got out? That possibility had disturbed much of her sleep over the past three nights. Many who knew Andrew Wagner would be aghast at the news, while others would leap on it gleefully.

And Owen Merrick would be one of them. His not-so-subtle reference to a dark secret convinced her he had somehow learned about Millie Brown and intended to hold that knowledge over her head like the sword of Damocles, ready to spread the news about her father far and wide if she dared interfere with his business.

But if his business threatened the happiness and well-being
of the people of Granite Springs, didn't the readers of the
Gazette
deserve to know the truth about what his company intended?

What about the truth as far as her father was concerned? The thought tugged at her and wouldn't leave her alone. Shouldn't she be just as willing to dig into the particulars of his association with Millie Brown? And if their relationship turned out to be just as Millie claimed, didn't she have a responsibility to print that truth?

The ache in her head increased, and she let out a low moan. Amelia sniffed and brushed a tear away. More than anything, she wanted to preserve the reputation her father had so carefully built up over the years. But if she was willing to compromise the truth in order to protect a loved one, that was further proof of her unsuitability as a newswoman.

Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, she drew in a shuddering breath, then forced herself to sit erect. Suitable or not, she was the editor of the
Gazette
—for now, at least. It was time to get back to the business at hand.

She pulled the drawing closer and studied it again. Maybe she'd been too focused on these few properties, in effect, keeping her from seeing the forest for the trees. Walking to the storeroom, she grabbed a blank sheet of newsprint and carried it back to the office.

Working from the original drawing, she quickly copied the sites she had already noted. Then she proceeded to expand the sketch, penciling in a rough layout of Granite Springs and Martin Gilbreth's sawmill, then the locations of as many mining claims as she could remember.

She tapped the end of the pencil against her teeth, ponder
ing what to add next. She made note of several ranches in the outlying area, then sketched in the hills to the west of the town and shaded in large areas to represent the vast stands of Ponderosa pine trees.

Cutting along the eastern edge of her map, she drew a meandering line denoting the Peavine, the railroad running from Ash Fork to Prescott. Construction for a new line from Prescott to Phoenix would be underway soon, but she didn't know its exact location in reference to her drawing. After a moment's hesitation, she made a series of dashes near the bottom-left corner. That might not show the correct path, but it would serve as a reminder.

How she wished Ben could be there to help her. He spent his days going over maps of the county and would know even more than she did about what lay out there that Great Western might be interested in.

Her eyes blurred as a jab of pain shot through her head again. Amelia choked back a sob. If only she could lie down for a few moments, maybe the blinding headache would subside. But her responsibility was here, with the paper. She didn't have time to coddle herself.

Another onslaught of pain made the decision for her. She couldn't find the truth when she was hurting like this. Surrendering, she made her way upstairs and curled up on her bed, with her head resting against the soft pillow.

The sound of voices from below roused her, and she opened her eyes. She blinked slowly, realizing that the vise squeezing her head had released its grip. She pushed herself upright on the side of the bed.

A young boy's laugh floated upstairs.
Jimmy?
But if he was
there, ready to help deliver the paper, how long had she been asleep? Had Homer managed to finish printing the paper on his own?

Amelia got to her feet, flinching at the reminder of how much her preoccupation with Great Western had cost her dear friend. Poor Homer had gone far more than the extra mile today.

Descending the stairs, she walked into the printing office and smiled at Homer and Jimmy. Spying a stack of unfolded papers, she headed toward it. “Let me take care of these. It's the least I can do.”

When Homer turned to her, the look in his eyes held none of its usual warmth. “You needn't bother. Jimmy came in early and helped me finish the printing. The two of us have it covered.” Before she could protest, he turned away and went back to work without another word.

Amelia stared, openmouthed. In all the years she had known him, Homer had never spoken to her in that tone of voice. But—her conscience smote her—in all that time, she had never treated him in the abrupt sort of manner she'd used today. No wonder he wanted nothing to do with her at the moment.

Berating herself for her self-focused actions, she pivoted on her heel and walked toward the front door. She needed to talk to Ben. Now seemed like a good time to look for him.

A
n hour later, Amelia walked back into the
Gazette
building, less frustrated than when she hurried out, and thankfully pain free now. She had covered the length of First Street from one end to the other but hadn't seen any sign of Ben. Letting a breath of air out in an exasperated huff, she slumped against the counter.

Where could he be? She'd scanned every face along the boardwalk and looked inside the window of every business on the town's main street—including the Great Western office—but to no avail. Perhaps he was out looking at a piece of property outside the town limits.

A glance at the clock told her it was nearly time for most of the local businesses to close for the day. The knowledge cheered her a little. Wherever Ben had gone, he might be coming back soon to wind up his business for the afternoon. Maybe she could still find him so they could discuss the day's progress . . . or lack of it.

At least she had managed to accomplish one thing that afternoon. When her search for Ben proved fruitless, she had walked out past the north end of town to the grove of trees
near the spring. The quiet spot had long been a favorite of those seeking a bit of solitude, and the secluded stand of trees provided the privacy she needed to pour out her confusion and frustration to the Lord.

There had been no audible voice, no miraculous vision in response to her fervent prayer, only a prompting to trust her heavenly Father.

I do trust you, Lord. It's
just that it's hard sometimes to know the right
direction to go.

Looking around at the chaos left behind in the wake of producing a new issue, she felt a glimmer of satisfaction. At least the paper had gone out on time, thanks to Homer.

Her satisfaction slipped away in a wave of self-reproach. She had let him carry the full burden of putting the paper together while she spent the day on a wild-goose chase . . . and snapped at him, to boot. None of the pressure weighing her down—or the pain of that blinding headache—was his fault. Far from it! While others would have walked out and left her stranded in similar circumstances, Homer played the role of hero, holding everything together in spite of her short temper. She owed him her deepest thanks—and an apology.

It usually took him and Jimmy a little over an hour to make their delivery rounds. That meant he ought to be making his way back to the
Gazette
at any moment.

But as offended as he seemed the last time she'd seen him, he might not come back to the newspaper at all. She couldn't blame him if he decided to take time for dinner at the Bon-Ton—or even go straight home for a quiet meal in order to avoid any more of her sharp-tongued comments.

In that case, she ought to go out and look for him. She couldn't
let her apology go unspoken one minute longer than necessary. With that thought in mind, she returned to First Street. She would find Homer and ask his forgiveness. And maybe, just maybe, she might spot Ben, as well. Perhaps they could have dinner together and find a quiet spot to talk over her questions.

She ambled along at a leisurely pace, giving herself time to look down every street and alleyway in the hope of spotting Homer. All down the length of the boardwalk, she saw people poring over copies of the latest issue of the
Gazette
.

Amelia couldn't help but smile at the familiar sight. One of the favorite moments of her week was when she walked down the street on publication day, catching the smiles and approving nods from her readers.

But something seemed different today. True to form, people glanced up when she walked by, but instead of responding to her friendly greeting, every one of them let their gazes slide away without speaking.

Her steps slowed even more, and she came to a stop. What was wrong with everyone?

“Amelia!”

She whirled around when she heard a familiar voice call her name and spotted Clara on the opposite side of the street. A smile sprang to her lips. The sight of a friendly face was welcome right now.

Or maybe not so friendly. Instead of responding with a smile of her own, the other woman stepped down off the boardwalk and angled across the street, bearing down on her like a locomotive . . . and an angry locomotive, at that.

Amelia stared, openmouthed. What could have put that grim look on her friend's face?

Puffing like a steam engine, Clara stepped up onto the boardwalk and planted herself squarely in front of Amelia. “I can't believe this. You could have knocked me over with a feather!”

A chill of concern added itself to Amelia's confusion. “What's wrong? Has something happened to Martin?”

“Has something happened?” Clara's eyes widened, and her nostrils flared. When she raised her arm, Amelia saw a fresh copy of the
Gazette
crumpled in her fist.

“How can you stand there with that wide-eyed, innocent look and ask me such a thing?” Clara's voice rose louder with every syllable. “
You
happened!”

Amelia saw curious glances turned in their direction and felt a wave of heat engulf her neck. “I don't understand. What are you talking about?”

“You put this out for everyone to see, and you're telling me you don't understand?”

“Clara, you're shouting.” Amelia raised her hands and patted the air in front of her, as if she could blot the angry woman's words away.

“You better believe I'm shouting!” She waved the wadded paper in front of Amelia's nose. “If you have the gall to put this garbage out in public, you have no right to cringe because I raise my voice a little.”

By this time, the people along the street had ceased pretending not to listen. A few stepped out from doorways farther down the block, the better to observe the show. Amelia felt her cheeks blaze. Her discomfort heightened when she saw Thaddeus Grayson lounging against the front of the general store, watching the goings-on with a look of keen enjoyment.

Trying to ignore their eager audience, she turned back to
Clara. “Are you talking about the article on Martin expanding the sawmill? Why should that upset you? Publicity like that is good for his business, and for the community, too. Everyone is so proud of what he's doing, and it seemed like a wonderful idea for a story. I thought you'd be pleased.”

“Pleased!” A deep red flush suffused Clara's face. “The only one pleased about this is you. But if this is the kind of thing you'll stoop to printing in order to boost your sales, then you're no friend of Martin's. Or mine, either.” She flung the paper down on the boardwalk, ground it under her heel, and stalked off without another word.

Feeling as if she'd just been run over by a locomotive, Amelia stared around at the people gathered nearby, hoping one of the onlookers might step forward and make sense of what just happened. Instead, they all turned away and went about their business.

In a daze, she bent over to pick up the paper Clara had thrown down and smoothed the crumpled folds open. Homer had placed a piece on Martin's sawmill in the center of the front page. Her forehead puckered. The notes she'd made for the article talked about his expansion of the sawmill, the addition of new employees, and the way this move would bring new business to Granite Springs.

Amelia shook her head. That was the kind of forward-thinking progress every town needed in order to grow, the sort of thing that would help the community and portray Martin as someone to admire. What could Clara possibly have found to cause such offense?

Mystified, she began to read through the article. The first paragraphs were just as she had written them. She shook her
head as her puzzlement grew. There was nothing there that could have elicited such a strong response from Clara.

The story continued as she had outlined it, describing the expansion, and singing Martin's praises for his contribution to Granite Springs. Near the end were several paragraphs she didn't recognize, obviously something Homer had added based on the tip he had received.

The newly expanded sawmill has been awarded a contract to provide ties and trestle materials for the extension of the Peavine, which will allow that line to run all the way from Prescott to Phoenix. The Gazette spoke to Albert Campbell and Wes Harvey, owners of sawmills in the Prescott area, about their reactions to this new development.

Amelia nodded. If the tip Homer had been given named those men as sources of information, it would make sense for him to follow up on that and contact them. He must have sent telegrams to Prescott while he was out that afternoon. She spotted some quotations a few lines down and read on.

Harvey insists Mr. Gilbreth had an unfair advantage in acquiring the contract, and Campbell agreed.

“Why would the railroad award that contract without getting bids from other sawmills?” Wes Harvey wanted to know. “Sounds like shady doings to me.”

Campbell said much the same thing and added, “I wouldn't be surprised if Gilbreth greased a few palms in the process.”

Amelia's eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat. Her horror grew as she read through the hateful accusations again, going clear to the end of the article this time.

Each man was obviously disgruntled at not receiving the contract himself, and both were outspoken in their opinions that Martin must have gotten the contract through some form of collusion with the railroad.

The breath whooshed out of Amelia's lungs.
Greased palms. Shady doings.
No wonder Clara had been so upset. And it explained the odd reactions she'd gotten from people on the street, as well.

Martin Gilbreth was a good man—a decent man. Everyone in Granite Springs admired his hard work and his reputation for honesty. But people had a way of accepting anything they saw in print as fact. Would seeing something like this in the newspaper—
her
newspaper—plant a seed of doubt about his character?

“‘The dignity of life is not impaired . . .'”

Hearing Homer's voice behind her, Amelia turned. Her earlier intention to throw herself on his mercy and ask forgiveness faded in the shock of what she had just read.

“‘ . . . by aught that innocently satisfies.'”

Her anxiety deepened when she noticed the glassy sheen in his eyes and detected a bit of a slur in his speech as he quoted the lines from Wordsworth. Stepping closer, she sniffed surreptitiously. Her nose crinkled at the telltale odor of alcohol on his breath.

“Homer!” She let every bit of the disappointment she felt show in her voice. “What were you thinking, putting those awful things about Martin in that article?”

Homer drew himself up, rocking slightly from side to side. “What was
I
thinking? You're the one who told me to follow up on that tip.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she shook her head vehemently.
“I told you to check it out and see what could be verified, not to print unfounded allegations.”

Fumbling in his jacket pocket, Homer drew forth some crumpled, yellow papers. “I did just what you said. The quotes from Campbell and Harvey are right here, exactly as I printed them. You wanted the space filled, so I filled it. You weren't around to ask, so I made the decision to run it—just like I had to do when your daddy was ailing.”

“But I—”

Homer didn't wait to hear more. With as much dignity as he could muster, he turned and walked away.

Amelia started to rush after him, then stopped. What more could she say? Homer was right—he'd followed up on the anonymous tip and gotten quotes from the sources mentioned. And now . . .

Her throat tightened, and she choked back a sob. A quick glance around showed her the street had cleared. That was one consolation, at least. She had no audience to witness her second confrontation of the afternoon.

Except for the lone figure outside the general store.

Rage filled her at the sight of Thaddeus Grayson, still leaning against the front of the building with a broad smile on his face, as if enjoying the afternoon's entertainment. Catching her gaze, he pushed away from the wall and sauntered in her direction, showing no more haste than if he'd been out on a leisurely Sunday stroll.

Her first impulse was to spin on her heel and walk away, but she couldn't let him think he was intimidating her. Drawing strength from her mounting anger and frustration, she strode forth to meet him.

Grayson favored her with an easy smile. “You seem to be having a difficult time of it this afternoon, daughter.”

Amelia jerked back as if he had slapped her. “Don't call me that.”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Are you having trouble running that little newspaper of yours? It isn't as easy being in charge as you thought, is it?”

He clicked his tongue in a show of sympathy. “I couldn't help but notice your friend seemed a bit upset. I would imagine a story like the one you printed today about an admired local figure might make you very unpopular.”

He shook his head sorrowfully. “Amelia, dear, when are you going to see reason and decide to come home?” He stretched out his hand as if to caress her cheek.

Amelia stepped back and swatted his hand away. “I told you before, I am not going back to Denver. Granite Springs is my home, and the
Gazette
is my newspaper. I never expected it to be all smooth sailing. My father weathered his share of storms, and so will I.”

“It's going to be rather difficult trying to do it all on your own.” Grayson gestured in the direction Homer had taken. “Not only have you lost a friend, but you seem to have alienated your only employee, as well.”

A thought flashed into Amelia's mind, and she narrowed her eyes. “Did you have something to do with that note Homer found?”

“Note? I have no idea what you're talking about.” The words were innocent enough, but his knowing smirk confirmed her suspicions.

“Oh, I think you do. Leaving a note that sent Homer haring
off in search of a story without having the decency to sign it—it's just the kind of thing I would expect from you.”