Truth Be Told (9 page)

Ben pulled the saddle from his horse. The leather creaked as he set it atop the saddle rack. After slipping a canvas feedbag filled with grain over the animal's head, he took the currycomb from its hook on the wall. He ran it along the horse's back with long, smooth strokes, while the sound of steady munching filled the quiet of the dim barn.

“I hope you enjoy your dinner, boy. It's too late for mine.” Mrs. Taylor, the proprietress of his boardinghouse on the outskirts of town, made it clear from the outset that the evening meal would be served punctually at six. If her boarders didn't make it to the table on time, they would be responsible for getting their supper elsewhere. He had missed that deadline by a couple of hours.

Removing the empty feedbag with a pang of envy, he led
the horse to its stall and threw a forkful of fragrant hay into the enclosure. His stomach growled as he slid his hands into his pockets and strolled outside the barn. A few lights still gleamed from within the boardinghouse, but Ben didn't feel ready to go inside just yet.

Walking over to the split-rail fence that marked the edge of Mrs. Taylor's property, he leaned against the top rail and tipped his head back to look up at the inky night sky. The clouds he'd seen earlier had disappeared, leaving the sky looking as though it had been swept clean to afford a perfect view of the stars overhead. From where he stood, he could pick out Orion, the Seven Sisters, and Cassiopeia in their stately march across the sky.

He let out a long sigh, wishing his own path could be as sure as theirs. When he'd accepted the assignment to strike up an acquaintance with the
Gazette
's new editor, the task had seemed simple enough. But he hadn't anticipated the difficulties that might arise.

When Amelia Wagner abruptly refused his invitation and sailed off down First Street without a backward glance, the rebuff had stung. What had he done to warrant that kind of reaction? From what he'd learned during their drive in the buggy, she held a fair amount of resentment about Owen Merrick's offer to purchase the newspaper. Ben could see her point on that. The overture had been ill-timed, indeed.
But I'm not Merrick.

It was obvious Homer Crenshaw didn't like him, either—or anyone who worked at Great Western. Maybe his attitude had influenced hers. But Ben hadn't approached her on a business matter—which made her refusal seem all the more personal.

When she told him she had things to attend to, he assumed she was on her way back to the newspaper, or perhaps to the café for an early dinner. Instead, she'd marched straight to the livery stable.

That move had puzzled him, so he'd taken up a post in a nearby alleyway and waited. Fifteen minutes later, she reappeared, driving a dapple-gray gelding. With his curiosity thoroughly piqued, he ducked back into the alley and trotted along on a course parallel to hers, hurrying to keep the buggy in sight, and watched her turn onto the road that led southwest out of town.

The only business along Jefferson Road was the sawmill, which had already closed for the day. Try as he might, he hadn't been able to think of any logical reason for an evening visit. But whatever her destination, that route was the only way she could take back to town.

Sprinting back to his boardinghouse, he'd hurried to the barn and saddled his horse, then followed the same route she had taken. She had to return to town sometime. And if he just happened to be on that road when she drove back, it would give him the opportunity to strike up another conversation.

When he'd rounded the curve and saw the buggy canted to one side at a crazy angle on the edge of the lonely road, a surge of panic had coursed through him, wondering if she'd been thrown out and injured . . . maybe even killed?

He'd wanted to whoop with relief when she came straggling out of that dense stand of cedars—even more so when she seemed to welcome his presence. She hadn't even raised an objection when he stated his intention to drive the buggy back to town.

And he had to admire her presence of mind. She hadn't flown into hysterics at being stranded, which would have been the first reaction of most women of his acquaintance. His admiration for her had only grown when she told him about her plan to unharness her horse and lead it back to town. Amelia Wagner was one determined woman—and one he was eager to know better. He didn't need an assignment from his boss to convince him of that.

He smiled, remembering the look of her glossy brown curls dancing around her heart-shaped face, and the way her wide blue eyes shone when he'd managed to repair the buggy wheel. Even though following his boss's order was the initial reason for striking up an acquaintance, it was going to be very easy to spend time in Amelia Wagner's company.

A
melia could hear the rhythmic clank and squeal as Homer worked the treadle of the Peerless press. She stared down at her freshly-penned lines.

We appreciate the support shown by the citizens of Granite Springs during this difficult time. Though under new management, your new editor wants to assure you the Gazette will continue its founder's commitment to shine the light of truth on local happenings, with a view toward bettering our community.

Had she captured the proper tone in her first editorial since taking over the paper? What about the length? The piece was concise and to the point, but there was so much more to say, so many things that she wanted to share with her readers.

The sound of the press ceased, and Homer's head appeared in the open office door. “Is your editorial ready to go? I just finished that new round of tally sheets for Harlan Griggs over at the Brass Rail, and I'd like to finish setting the front page while they dry.”

“I'm almost finished. Just a minute more.”

“‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.'” Homer thrust his arm forward in dramatic fashion as he turned back to the printing office.

Amelia wrinkled her nose, wondering if she detected a faint whiff of alcohol mingled with the smell of printer's ink. Had Homer been tippling? She thought back to the line he'd just quoted from Shakespeare's
King Henry V
and the wide swing of his arm that accompanied it and nibbled on her lower lip. It was nothing out of the ordinary for Homer to throw out a line of poetry, but his gestures always became more flamboyant when he'd been nipping at the bottle.

A tendril of worry threaded its way up her spine. When her father first met Homer, he recognized the man's redeeming qualities despite his bent for heavy drinking. He'd taken Homer under his wing, helped him sober up, and introduced him to the Lord when Amelia was a small child. From that point on, Homer turned his back on alcohol . . . for the most part. Amelia had several vivid memories of times when he slipped back into his old ways when under pressure.

But they were both under pressure now. She pressed her lips together and tried to rein in her impatient thoughts. At the moment, her main objective was getting this week's paper out. She could question him about his drinking later.

She took a moment to scan the editorial once more, then picked up her pen and rolled it between her fingers. How should she sign the piece? Everyone in Granite Springs knew that Andrew James Wagner was no longer the proprietor of the
Gazette,
but this would be her first official declaration that she was now the one at the helm.

She chewed her lip again while she turned over several pos
sibilities in her mind. Then she smiled. Her father had always used his initials: A. J. Wagner. And her name was Amelia Jane.

Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she scrawled
A. J. Wagner
across the bottom of the page with a flourish. It was a way of blending the old with the new, one more proof that the
Gazette
's mission had not changed.

Taking the paper to the printing office, she picked up a composing stick and carried the shallow metal tray to the type cabinet. “What's left to set up for the front page?”

“It's nearly done.” Homer glanced at the written page in front of her and grimaced. “I was hoping that editorial would be longer. It would have given us an excuse to leave out that Mrs. Parmenter's treacly excuse for a poem.”

Amelia hid a smile. “It is a bit much, isn't it?”

“‘Golden orb and honey'd trills.'” Homer snorted. “The
Gazette
has a reputation as a respected newspaper. I don't know why you agreed to print that tripe in the first place.”

“The
Gazette
is also a voice of the community. And Hyacinth Parmenter's voice is going to be telling all her friends to buy a copy of the paper that showcased her masterpiece. Think of it as a good business move.”

“Once you let her start, you won't be able to stop her. She'll expect you to keep right on printing more every week.”

“As a matter of fact”—Amelia reached under the counter and drew forth a sheet of paper—“she dropped this off yesterday so we'd have plenty of time to work it into the next issue.”

Homer moved closer and bent to read the flowing script: “‘White, woolly clouds mass o'er the land, and skip along like gamboling lambs.'” His mouth dropped open. “Have mercy.”

“She obviously has a love of verse.” Amelia gave him a teas
ing grin. “Maybe all she needs is a guiding hand. Someone who could explain to her the intricacies of true poetry. Maybe you should take her under your wing. . . . You could think of it as doing a service to the community.”

Homer glowered at her. “Not on your tintype, missy.”

Amelia laughed, and then her face grew somber. While she fitted the small pieces of type into the composing stick, she asked, “Why didn't Papa ever tell me about buying that property from Virgil Sparks?”

Homer shrugged. “Maybe with more important things on his mind, he just didn't get around to it. The main reason he bought that land was to help Virgil out. At first, he thought he might hold on to it for a couple of years and see if it would increase in value. When he found out Great Western was interested in it, he started looking at it like a game of checkers, where he was able to keep them from gobbling up everything in that area.”

Amelia nodded. That would explain why her father wanted to keep control of the property. But it didn't answer the question of why Great Western was so interested in that section.

By the end of the afternoon, the week's edition was folded, stacked, and ready to deliver. Amelia let out a sigh of relief and started to swipe her hand across her forehead to push back a tumble of curls, but she stopped when she realized how smudged her fingers were.

Homer kicked a heap of paper scraps to one corner of the floor and picked up a rag to clean his hands. Maybe now was the time to ask him about the alcohol she thought she smelled earlier. She took a step forward and cleared her throat.

Before she could speak, the front door burst open, and Jimmy Brandt arrived, right on cue. “Is the paper finished?”

Amelia sighed and forced a smile. “Perfect timing, as always.” She helped Jimmy load his canvas bag and watched him and Homer set out on their delivery rounds. She would have to bring up the drinking another time . . . if she had been correct in her assessment. Homer hadn't seemed impaired in the least, so maybe it hadn't been alcohol she smelled.

She wet a rag with coal oil and began cleaning the type. Just as she completed the task, a movement outside caught her eye, and she recognized Clara Gilbreth passing by. Hurrying over to the front window, Amelia tapped on the glass to catch the other woman's attention and went outside to greet her.

Clara looked at Amelia in surprise. “I thought you'd be hard at work getting the paper out.”

“We just finished. Jimmy and Homer are out making deliveries, and I'm ready to take a breather as soon as I clean the ink off my hands. Would you like to walk to the café with me and help me celebrate with a cup of tea?”

A grin creased Clara's face. “If you're willing to stop at Kingston's store first. I need to pick up a packet of pins.”

As they walked to the general store, Amelia spotted Jimmy darting from one house to another along the residential section of Jefferson Road. Once Clara finished her errand, they headed toward the café.

“I heard a whisper around town.” Clara shot her a sidelong glance as they walked down First Street toward the café. “Something about you having trouble on the road out near the sawmill the other night. Or was it more like a fortuitous encounter?”

Amelia sucked in her breath and tried to answer in a casual
tone. “It was nothing, really. I was just taking a drive, and the buggy lost a wheel. Mr. Stone happened to come along just then, and he was nice enough to mend the wheel for me so I could get back to town.”

“So it wasn't a planned meeting, like some folks are saying?”

Amelia's eyes flared wide. “No, not at all.” She thought she had managed to convince Carl Olsen their meeting was accidental, but apparently he'd wasted no time in spreading his version of her mishap to eager ears. If Clara had heard the tale already, it was a sure thing everyone else in the Granite Springs community knew of it by now.

Most likely with numerous embellishments.

But what could she expect? She'd been raised in this town. She knew as well as anyone the loquacious livery owner served as a hub of information that rivaled the
Gazette.

A new thought popped into her head. Had Ben heard this version of their encounter? And if so, how did he feel about being the focus of local gossip? She cringed, trying to imagine his reaction.

Clara waited to speak until they reached the café and ordered their tea. “I didn't mean to stir things up. No one is trying to start a scandal, if that's what you're worried about. Everyone around here knows you've been through a rough patch, and the idea of you finding some happiness makes them happy, too.”

The tea arrived just then, and Amelia busied herself stirring sugar into the steaming brew in the blue willow cup, giving herself time to ponder what her friend had said. Did being around Ben make her happy? They'd only spent a short time together, but the mere memory of him sitting beside her on the buggy seat set her heart beating at a faster rate. She tried
to steer her thoughts away from Homer's suspicions and the confusion they engendered.

A change of subject seemed in order. “How are things going at the sawmill?”

Clara took a brief sip of tea, then smiled as she set the cup down in the saucer. “Couldn't be better. Martin got a new contract, and everything is buzzing like a bunch of bees around a hive.”

She glanced down at the table, then looked back up at Amelia. “I don't mean to pry, but something's been puzzling me.”

Amelia eyed her, wondering what was to come next. “Go ahead.”

“Martin told me you've been living in Denver with your mother for quite a while. I'm wondering how that happened, with your pa being out here. I know it's really none of my business, but like I told you, I tend to speak what's on my mind.”

Amelia added another spoonful of sugar to her tea and watched the spoon swirl the amber liquid around in the cup. “When my parents married, my mother thought she was getting someone who wanted to make a difference in the world. In her mind, that meant forging friendships with politicians and leaders of society. But Papa planned to make a difference in another way. We moved out here when I was quite small so he could start the
Gazette
and have a part in opening up a new section of the country.”

“How did that set with your mother?”

Amelia lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “She put up with it for a while, long enough to realize that unlike most newspaper editors, he wasn't willing to be used to further the agenda of some political faction. He had a mission to make the truth
known, and he wasn't going to use his position as a stepping-stone to bigger and better things. When I was thirteen, she insisted we all return to Denver so I could have the opportunities for a cultured life, the kind she felt a young lady ought to welcome.”

Clara studied her with a knowing expression. “Something tells me it didn't work out exactly the way she planned, since Martin says you made it a point to come back here every summer. And now you're staying on.”

Amelia chose her words with care. “Denver has a lot to offer, although the things I enjoy about it aren't the same things my mother takes pleasure in. She expected me to be thrilled with coming-out parties, balls, and the rest of the social whirl. Instead, I got involved with a ministry to the underprivileged through my church. That was far more fulfilling to me than any of my mother's parties.

“And then”—she smiled—“I got in touch with one of my father's friends, an editor at one of the Denver newspapers. He knew I had worked alongside my father, so he let me come in and help out from time to time.”

Clara's faded blue eyes twinkled. “I'm guessing that didn't set too well with your ma.”

“You'd be right about that. But I love everything about the newspaper world. Papa always used to say he was born with printer's ink in his veins. He must have passed that along to me.” She glanced out the window and watched a ranch hand driving a buckboard loaded with spools of barbed wire away from the depot. “I inherited his love for Granite Springs, too. Staying here was the right decision for me. This is where I belong.”

Clara bobbed her head. “It's good for a body to know where they belong. Lots of folks spend too many years trying to figure
that out, and some of them never do get it right.” She pushed her chair back from the table. “And fixing Martin's dinner is what I ought to be doing right now. I'd best be moving along.”