Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Read online

  A Matter of

  Character

  A Matter of

  Character

  Robin Lee

  Hatcher

  THE SISTERS OF BETHLEHEM SPRINGS

  A NOVEL

  ZONDERVAN

  A Matter of Character

  Copyright © 2010 by RobinSong, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition APRIL 2010 ISBN: 978-0-310-56534-5

  Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hatcher, Robin Lee.

  A matter of character : the sisters of Bethlehem Springs / Robin Lee Hatcher.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references and index [if applicable].

  ISBN: 978-0-310-25807-0 (pbk.)

  1. Women authors—Fiction. 2. Idaho—History—20th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.A73574M38 2010

  813’.54-dc220 2010008986

  * * *

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  * * *

  10 11 12 13 14 15 /DCI/ 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Let the words of my mouth,

  and the meditation of my heart,

  be acceptable in thy sight,

  O LORD, my strength, and my redeemer.

  Psalm 19:14

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Half Title Page

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY ROBIN LEE HATCHER

  Preview

  A Vote of Confidence

  Fit to Be Tied

  When Love Blooms

  Wagered Heart

  Return to Me

  Loving Libby

  In His Arms

  Dear Lady

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  PROLOGUE

  ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI, AUGUST 1918

  Propelled by a white hot fury, Joshua Crawford pushed open the door to Gregory Halifax’s office so hard it hit the wall with a loud wham. Startled, Gregory looked up a split second before Joshua slapped the newspaper onto the desk.

  “What is this garbage?” Joshua demanded.

  Gregory’s expression changed from one of surprise to a smirk. “So you read it.”

  “Of course I read it, and I’m here to demand a retraction.”

  “A retraction? For what?”

  “For what you wrote about my grandfather.”

  Gregory laughed softly. “You must be joking. The article is about dime novelists. The part about Richard Terrell was the words of the author, not mine.”

  “But you made what Mr. Morgan wrote in his novels sound as if it was fact rather than fiction. It’s not.”

  “How do you know it’s not? Tell me. What do you know about your grandfather before he settled in St. Louis? Nothing, that’s what. You’ve said so yourself.”

  “Did you contact anyone in Idaho to try to confirm that the character in Morgan’s books is based on the real Richard Terrell?”

  “I didn’t need to. I interviewed the publishers for my story. And again, the focus of my article is the men who write dime novels, not on the characters found in their books.”

  “But in the process you’ve dragged my grandfather’s good name through the mud. I want a retraction.”

  Gregory pushed back his chair and stood, the smile gone from his face. “When you prove anything I wrote is in error, then come see me again, and we’ll have this discussion. Until then, get out.”

  For one moment, Joshua thought he might be able to control his temper. For one very brief moment—just before he caught Gregory’s jaw with a right hook followed by a left jab to the gut. Gregory flew backward into the wall. The glass in the office door rattled again. Joshua readied himself for the other man to fight back. To his dissatisfaction, it didn’t happen. Gregory’s eyes were still unfocused when more men poured into the office and grabbed Joshua by the arms, hauling him away. One of the men was Joshua’s boss, Langston Lee.

  “You’re fired, Crawford. Collect your things and get out. I won’t have my reporters brawling. You hear me. Get out or I’ll call the police.”

  Joshua longed to turn his rage onto his boss, to give Langston Lee a little of what he’d already given Gregory Halifax. But he had enough good sense left to resist the urge. He was already out of a job. He didn’t want to spend time in a jail cell besides.

  But so help him, he would get a retraction out of this newspaper. He would prove Gregory Halifax was a shoddy reporter and see that he was fired. He would hear Langston Lee apologize. And he would make certain D. B. Morgan never again maligned his grandfather in print.

  This wasn’t over yet.

  ONE

  OCTOBER 1918

  Maybe it was time to kill Rawhide Rick. He’d served his purpose, the old rascal. He’d hunted buffalo and fought Indians and stolen gold from hardworking miners and sent men to the gallows. Now might be the time for him to meet his Maker. The trick was deciding how to kill him.

  Daphne McKinley rose from her desk and walked into the parlor, where she pushed aside the curtains at the window.

  A golden haze blanketed Bethlehem Springs. It had been a beautiful autumn. The prettiest one yet in her three years in this serene Idaho mountain town. The trees had been the brightest of golds, the most fiery of reds, the deepest of greens. Daphne had spent many a mild afternoon walking trails through the forest, enjoying the colors and the smells.

  If Rawhide Rick—who by this point in the series of books had become the infamous Judge Richard Terrell—was dead, what would become of the dashing Bill McFarland, hero of The McFar-land Chronicles? Without his arch enemy, his life might become rather dull. Or perhaps it was Daphne who would find life dull without Rawhide Rick. Wicked he was, but he certainly kept things interesting whenever he was around.

  She rubbed her eyelids with the tips of her fingers, an
d when she pulled them away, she noticed ink stains on her right hand. Her fountain pen was leaking. Perhaps it was time to buy a typewriter. But would writing on a machine feel the same?

  Daphne turned from the window, her gaze sweeping the parlor. She’d come to love this small house on Wallula Street. Since moving into it soon after Gwen—its previous owner—married Daphne’s brother, she’d delighted in making it her home, decorating and furnishing it in ways that pleased her. Daphne’s childhood homes had been large and filled with servants waiting to attend to her slightest wish. But she had often been forced to live by the timetables of others. Now she could do as she willed, when she willed. The freedom she enjoyed was intoxicating.

  The best part was when she wanted to be with family, she got into her motorcar—her very own, quite wonderful McLaughlin-Buick—and drove to her brother’s home to play with her young nephew and infant niece. She was completely dotty over the two of them. She loved to crawl around on the floor with Andy—he would turn two at the end of November—the both of them squealing and giggling. And there was nothing like cuddling three-month-old Ellie. Daphne thought the baby girl smelled like sunshine.

  A sigh escaped her. She hadn’t time for daydreaming about Morgan’s and Gwen’s darling children. She must decide what to do. If she was going to kill the judge, she needed to notify Elwood Shriver at once. Wavering in indecisiveness served no good purpose.

  She returned to her small office. The floor around her desk was littered with wadded sheets of paper. It was always thus when words frustrated her. “So wasteful,” she scolded softly.

  As she sat down, she took up the five-day-old newspaper. News of the war half a world away was splashed across the front page. More than a million American men—just boys, many of them—were now fighting in Europe alongside the Allied Powers. The end was near, some said. She prayed to God they were right. Too many had died already. Others, like Woody Statham, would wear the scars from their war wounds for the remainder of their lives—if not on their bodies then in their souls.

  She flipped through several more pages of the newspaper, but nothing she read captured her imagination or sparked her creativity. Besides, she’d read every article before, some of them several times.

  Maybe her problem wasn’t with Rawhide Rick. Maybe the problem was Bill McFarland. Maybe she was tired of him. Maybe he should die.

  “Maybe the whole lot of them should perish,” she muttered as she laid the newspaper aside.

  She spun her chair toward the bookcase beneath the office window. There, on the bottom row, were copies of The McFarland Chronicles by D. B. Morgan, all ten volumes. And if she didn’t decide soon what to do about Rawhide Rick, ten volumes would be all there were.

  There was no question that Daphne loved writing stories of adventure and danger in the West of forty and fifty years ago. And while she would concede that her books were not great literature, they were entertaining, for readers and for herself. But there were days like today when she was tempted to contact her editor in New York City and tell him that she (D. B. McKinley, whom Elwood Shriver thought to be a man) was retiring and thus so must D. B. Morgan (the pseudonym used on her books). However, she knew she would miss the storytelling were she to give it up. After all, it didn’t take much effort to clean her small house or cook the occasional meal. Without her writing pursuits, what would she do with her time?

  It would be nice if she could discuss her feelings with someone, but there wasn’t another person, in Bethlehem Springs or elsewhere, who knew she was the author of dime novels. She wasn’t sure her brother would believe her if she told him. The only soul who might suspect anything was Dedrik Finster, the Bethlehem Springs postmaster, because of the mail she sent and received, but his English wasn’t the best and he probably had no idea that Shriver & Sons was a publishing company. Why would he?

  Maybe what she needed more than anything was a drive out to the Arlington ranch and a long visit with Griff Arlington, Gwen and Cleo’s father. That man had given her more story ideas in the last three years than she could ever hope to put on paper. It was Griff who had told her about the escapades of the real-life Richard Terrell, every bit as much a scoundrel as her fictional character, although perhaps in different ways. Yes, a visit with Griff was just what the doctor ordered.

  Her mind made up, she rose and went in search of hat, gloves, and coat.

  Joshua stepped from the passenger car onto the platform and looked about him. A large family—father, mother, and six children—were being escorted into the railroad station by a young man in a blue uniform. They were on their way to a hot springs resort located north of Bethlehem Springs. He knew this because they had spoken of little else during the journey, and Joshua couldn’t have helped but overhear their conversation as they’d been a rather boisterous group.

  He, on the other hand, was headed into the town that appeared to be about a quarter mile or so up a dirt road that passed between two low-slung hills. Switching his valise to the opposite hand, he set off in that direction.

  The first building he saw upon entering Bethlehem Springs was a church. All Saints Presbyterian, according to the sign out front. Catty-corner from All Saints was the Daily Herald, his destination. He crossed the street and entered the newspaper office. Familiar smells—newsprint, ink, dust—filled his nostrils.

  An attractive but pale-looking woman, dressed in black, came out of the back room, hesitated when she saw him, then moved forward, stopping on the opposite side of a raised counter. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes.” He set down his valise and removed his hat. “My name is Joshua Crawford. I’m here to see Nathan Patterson.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford.” Her voice broke, and it took her a moment to continue. “Mr. Patterson passed away.” She drew a long breath and released it. “I’m his widow. Perhaps I can assist you.”

  Either Nathan Patterson had been much older than his wife or he had died tragically young, for Joshua guessed the woman to be no more than in her early thirties.

  “I…I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know. Mr. Patterson recently offered me a job as a reporter for the Daily Herald. I’ve just arrived in Bethlehem Springs.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten your name. Nathan told me to expect you.”

  Joshua had counted on this job. Without it, he couldn’t afford to stay in Idaho. He would barely have enough money for train fare back to St. Louis, as long as he didn’t spend a night in the hotel, and even then he wouldn’t have much left over to buy food. He would be extremely hungry before he reached Missouri. Not to mention that he wouldn’t have a job waiting for him when he got there—unless he was successful here first.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Crawford. My husband would be heartbroken to see this newspaper fail. I assume you can do more than report?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You are qualified to manage the paper, I trust.”

  Manage it? That was more than he’d expected. But if it worked out…“Yes, I am qualified,” he answered—with more confidence than he felt.

  “Good. Nathan’s final instruction was for me to offer you the job as managing editor of the Daily Herald. If you’re interested, that is.”

  He hadn’t thought to be in Idaho more than a month or two. Surely he could discover the information he needed, take care of matters, and return to Missouri before Christmas. On the other hand, success as a managing editor would look good on his résumé, would give him many more opportunities than simply working as a reporter for a small paper.

  “Are you interested, Mr. Crawford?”

  He had few other options. None, actually. Not if he wanted to honor his grandfather’s memory. Not if he wanted to restore his own good name and get back his old job. Taking the job as managing editor didn’t mean he would be here forever. He could keep the newspaper running until Mrs. Patterson found his replacement. It was the least he could do for the man who had paid his train fare from Missouri to Idaho. “Yes, Mrs. Pa
tterson. I’m interested.”

  “The pay will be ninety-five dollars a month to start. I know it isn’t the sort of salary you must have received at a large newspaper, but you’ll have a place to live for free.” She pointed at the ceiling. “There’s an apartment above the office with a kitchen and bath. It hasn’t been used for several years, but with a bit of elbow grease, it should clean up well and prove adequate for a bachelor such as yourself.”

  Ninety-five a month. Not quite twelve hundred a year. Less than Langston Lee had paid him back in St. Louis, but more than the sum Nathan Patterson had offered when he’d applied for the job with the Daily Herald. With a place to live thrown in, the salary would allow him to put money aside for when he returned to Missouri.

  “That sounds fine,” he answered.

  Mrs. Patterson gave him a fleeting smile. “Good. Now let me show you to your quarters. I’m sure you must be weary from your journey. We can begin work in the morning.”

  Daphne was invited by Griff Arlington to have supper with the family and to spend the night at the ranch as she occasionally did, but she declined. Griff’s storytelling about his early days in Idaho had done just what she’d hoped. Ideas were rolling around in her head, and she was desperate to get them on paper before they disappeared like a puff of smoke in the wind.

  As soon as she walked into her house, she tossed her coat over the nearest chair, dropped her hat on the table, and hurried into her office, where she lit the lamp and began scribbling as fast as she could. It seemed she barely drew a breath for the next hour. When she looked up at last, she saw that night had fallen over Bethlehem Springs. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d missed supper. Still, she had little desire to cook. This seemed like a good evening to pay a visit to one of the town’s restaurants.