Truth Be Told (3 page)

The doctor nodded. “I thought that might be the case.”

“What's wrong with him?” she demanded. “How long will it take him to recover?”

The doctor's somber expression made her heart constrict, and her voice rose half an octave. “He
is
going to get better, isn't he?”

Dr. Harwood reached out to lay one hand on her shoulder. “Your father has a malignant cancer. I'm afraid it's well advanced by now. Frankly, I'm surprised he's still with us. I think he's been hanging on, just waiting to see you again. Now that you're here—”

“What?” A clutch of dread seized Amelia's throat, and she fought to squeeze the words out. “You're not telling me . . .”

The doctor's gaze softened, and he tightened his grip on her shoulder. “I know this is hard for you to hear, but he's just hanging on by a thread. I'll be surprised if he lasts the week.”

Amelia balled her hands into tight fists beneath her chin, trying to grasp the enormity of the doctor's statement. A sob tore from her throat. “But it's too soon! I'm not ready . . .” Her voice trailed off as she recognized the truth reflected in the doctor's solemn gaze and realized the futility of her words. Ready or not, her emotions wouldn't change the situation. Concern for her father—not for her own feelings—had to take precedence.

Lowering her hands to her sides, she squared her shoulders and tried to steady her voice. “What can I do for him? How can I help make him comfortable?”

A brief smile of approval flitted across the doctor's lips. “Homer has some medicine I left that helps ease the pain. He's been doing a fine job of staying on top of things. My advice would be to let him run the paper, and for you to spend as much time with your father as you can. That's the best medicine you can offer him.”

He patted her shoulder and withdrew his hand. “I've done all I can do for him, but I'll check back from time to time to see how you're both getting along. And if there's anything
you need, just send someone for me. I'll come as quickly as I can.” With a final sympathetic look, he gave her a nod and left.

It took several minutes before she could compose herself enough to walk back to the sickroom. Pushing the door open, she stepped inside, trying to conceal her anguish. She took her time settling herself on the ladder-back chair beside the bed, noting her father's pallor and the waxy appearance of his skin. Despite his attempts to set her at ease, he was ill—desperately ill. Why hadn't she recognized the signs before?

The answer was simple enough.
I didn't
see it because I didn't want to.

Her father's lips twisted into a rueful smile. “He told you?”

She should have known he'd see right through her efforts to appear composed. Hadn't he always been able to know what was really going on inside her? Her carefully erected air of calm began to crumble, and she gripped his hand in both her own. “He must be mistaken. He
has
to be! You can't . . .” Her throat tightened, choking off her protest.

He reached up to stroke her cheek with his free hand. “I'm sorry, honey. I wouldn't have planned it this way, but it wasn't left up to me. We have to talk about the future—what we're going to do with the paper, what you're going to do. At least you won't be left completely on your own. You have a home to return to in Denver once this is over.”

It isn't a home I want
to go back to!
Amelia clamped her lower lip between her teeth to keep from saying the words aloud.

“I'd like to keep the paper going as long as we can, so you can get the best price for it,” her father went on. “We could ask Clay Sloan to put some feelers out. He might know someone who would be interested.”

He laid his palm against her cheek. “I won't ask you to stay indefinitely, but do you think you and Homer could run the
Gazette
until it's sold? I want some of the proceeds to go to Homer. He's been a good helper and a great friend over the years. The rest will be yours.”

A spasm crossed his face, and he pulled his hand away to press it against his side.

Amelia started to her feet, but he shook his head and tugged at her hand. “Don't let just anybody have it, though,” he continued in a noticeably weaker voice. “I want it to go to someone who cares about the truth as much as you and I do. Something isn't right about Great Western, something even worse than their plans for hydraulic mining, as bad as that is. I need to know whoever is at the helm of the
Gazette
will bring the truth to light.”

Amelia leaned forward and blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. “That's enough for now, Papa. I don't want you to wear yourself out.”

“Honey, if I rest now, I may never get another chance to tell you.” He drew a shaky breath, and his eyelids fluttered. “But I'll admit, I'm pretty tuckered. I wouldn't mind a chance to close my eyes for a bit.”

Amelia bent over to tuck the sheet around his shoulders and pressed her quivering lips against his forehead. “I love you, Papa. Always remember that.”

“I love you, too, honey.” His lips moved again, and she bent lower to catch the faint words. “Look for me at the Eastern Gate.”

Amelia knew she would always remember the next few days as some of the most precious in her life. Every brief scrap of
conversation with her father, every tender touch, every loving glance that passed between them, would be emblazoned on her memory forever.

True to his word, Dr. Harwood checked in several times. Pastor Edmonds was a frequent caller, as well, offering spiritual encouragement to them both and bolstering Amelia's flagging spirits by his repeated assurances that she was doing everything humanly possible to bring comfort to her father's final days.

Friends stopped by to say farewell, while Homer put all his efforts into making sure the
Gazette
's next issue went out on time. Though he looked worn to a frazzle, he insisted he could manage it alone, wanting to give Amelia and her father every possible minute together. Amelia suspected he spent his rare snippets of free time working on a tribute to her father to be printed whenever that day arrived, but she couldn't bring herself to ask if her supposition was correct.

She scarcely left the sickroom for more than a few moments, for fear she might not be there when her father needed her. When the end came, she sat quietly by his side, sandwiching his hand between hers. She watched his chest rise and fall, noting that each faint breath came slower than the one before. Finally she heard one last, gentle sigh . . . and he was gone.

T
he funeral passed in a haze. With Homer beside her, Amelia sat on a hard pew at the front of the sanctuary of the Granite Springs Community Church. Her mind registered a number of mourners in attendance, though she took no note of individual faces. Pastor Edmonds stood behind the pulpit and spoke in a heartfelt tone, but not one word penetrated her consciousness. Her whole attention remained focused on the simple coffin in front of the minister.

Her head cleared somewhat when the congregation reached the cemetery, and she took her place beside the waiting coffin and the open grave. She scanned the faces around her, recognizing several who had come to pay their last respects.

Emmett Kingston, having closed the general store for the morning, stood beside Thomas Rafferty, the station agent. Both men's eyes were red-rimmed, and they made surreptitious swipes at their noses with pocket handkerchiefs.

Carl Olsen, owner of the livery stable, was there, along with Martin Gilbreth. On Martin's left stood a tall, angular woman Amelia hadn't seen before who kept one hand tucked into the crook of his elbow and patted his arm with the other.

Amelia turned her attention to a small group of men clustered a short distance from the other mourners, beneath the limbs of a solitary pine. None of their faces were familiar to her, so she let her gaze slide past, then jerked it back to the group again when she recognized Ben Stone.

She pressed closer to Homer and spoke in a low tone. “All these people must have known Papa, but some of them are new to me. That woman standing with Mr. Gilbreth, for instance. Did he marry recently?”

Homer snorted and glanced in the direction she indicated. “Martin Gilbreth is as much a confirmed bachelor as I am. That's his older sister. She came out here a few months ago to keep house for him.”

Amelia took a second look at the woman and nodded. “Now that you mention it, I can see the family resemblance. What about those men over there?” She tilted her head toward the group by the pine tree.

Homer followed her gaze, and his features took on a stony expression. “It's that bunch of scoundrels from Great Western. They have a lot of nerve, showing their faces here today.”

Before he could say more, Pastor Edmonds stepped forward and addressed the mourners. While he read from Psalm 23, Amelia studied the group from Great Western again—five men, wearing identical smug expressions . . . except for Ben Stone.

The disrespect they showed smote Amelia's aching heart like the thrust of a dagger. What kind of men would intrude upon her grief on such a mournful day?

She snapped her attention back to the service when the pallbearers moved into position beside the coffin and carefully
lowered it into the grave. Pastor Edmonds said a closing prayer, then dismissed the group of mourners.

He moved closer to Amelia and clasped her hands in his. “Your father was a fine man, and we're all going to miss him. Feel free to call on me if there's anything I can do. And know that you'll be in my prayers.”

Amelia nodded and watched him drift off to speak with some of the onlookers. She stooped to pick up a handful of the loose dirt at the grave's edge, then straightened and sprinkled the moist soil onto her father's coffin. “Good-bye, Papa,” she whispered.

A shadow fell across the grave, and she looked up to see one of the men from Great Western standing beside her. Her breath caught in her throat, and she took a quick step back.

“Good afternoon, Miss Wagner. I'm sorry for your loss.” The sentiments the stocky, dark-haired man expressed were conventional enough, but the sympathetic words didn't match the coldness in his eyes.

Amelia bobbed her head. “Thank you.” She looked around for Homer, but he stood some distance away, talking to Emmett Kingston. When she turned to join him, the man at her side raised his hand.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Owen Merrick. I'm the vice president of the Great Western Investment Company. I know nothing can ease the pain of your loss, but I have an offer that might help lighten your burden somewhat.”

Amelia could only stare at first, then she finally found her voice. “I'm not sure I understand. . . .”

Mr. Merrick took a step closer. “Being a businessman myself, I understand how trying it can be to dispose of property. For
a woman who's alone and grieving . . .” He tilted his head in a show of solicitude and gave her an ingratiating smile. “I'd like to help, and so, on behalf of my company, I'm offering to purchase your newspaper—for a fair price, of course. That way you'll be free to turn your mind to other matters. If you would care to stop by my office tomorrow, we can discuss the terms.”

Amelia lifted her chin and tried to keep her voice from wobbling. “This is hardly the time or the place for such an offer, Mr. Merrick. And at any rate, I'm afraid you've wasted your time. The
Gazette
is not for sale.”

Not at the moment, at least
. And even when she did put the paper on the market, she would never sell it to anyone who had caused her father such grief.

Owen Merrick chuckled. “My dear young lady, you can't intend to run it yourself? Better consider taking my offer while the paper still has some value. Let me know when you've changed your mind.” He tipped his hat and joined the rest of the Great Western contingent, who had already started walking back toward town.

As the group moved off, Amelia saw Ben Stone look back over his shoulder. Their gazes met, and the compassion in his eyes tugged at her heart.

Other mourners filed by, murmuring words of comfort. Amelia accepted their condolences, trying to keep her mind focused on giving a polite response while Merrick's stinging words echoed in her mind. Finally she stood with Homer beside her, staring down into the lonely grave.

Homer put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle hug. “Heaven's richer for his passing, but that doesn't make it any easier for those of us who have been left behind.”

Amelia didn't respond. She pressed her lips together and swallowed, trying to hold back the tears. Despite her efforts, one slipped from her eye and traced a path down her cheek. With an angry sniff, she reached up to dash it away with the back of her hand.

Pastor Edmonds joined them and patted her on the arm. “Don't try to hold it in, my dear. God understands our broken hearts. Remember, Jesus wept after the death of his friend Lazarus.”

Amelia looked up at the kindly minister. Keeping her tone even, she said, “Thank you. I appreciate everything you've done for my father and me.” With one last glance at her father's final resting place, she straightened her shoulders and retraced her steps toward town with Homer trailing behind her.

Weeping could come later—she had a newspaper to run.