Hooked (44 page)

“Vernon Wilberforce? That is
not
my Vernon!” came a female voice from the crowd as she elbowed her way to the front of the onlookers.

Gage cringed. He had a sinking feeling he knew who the woman was.

Drawing up to him by mere inches, her hat feathers in a twitter and her lips pursed, she eyed him closely. “Who are you and why are you saying you're my husband?”

“I knew it!” Beauregarde spat, slapping his hat on his thigh. “He's no salesman. He didn't want to talk about his territory.”

“So just who in the Sam Hill are you?” Gushurst asked, his tone about as friendly as a dog's bite.

All eyes leveled on Gage. He'd been backed into corners before. But rarely with the relief or sense of irony he was feeling now. Showing his true face
couldn't have come at a better time. Because Vernon Wilberforce didn't have an ounce of weight to throw around.

But Matthew Gage did.

“I'm Matthew Gage, reporter for
The San Francisco Chronicle
, and if you take that one thousand dollars away from Meg Brooks, you'll be reading about it in the big city papers. In less than a month of Sundays, Harmony, Montana, will be known as a petty little town whose residents are a bunch of narrow-minded idiots.”

His gaze traveled over the crowd. “You don't think I'll do it? Just try me.”

21

“W
hy are you impersonating my husband?”

“Mrs. Wilberforce, this is a discussion I think you need to have with Mr. Wilberforce,” Gage said to Violet Wilberforce.

They stood in the lobby of the hotel where Nettie Rothman had been putting up whatever decorations she could find for a celebration party in honor of Meg's win at the tournament. Word had spread fast and Meg's grandmother beamed like a full moon over Meg's accomplishment. And she wanted the town to know it. Meg was upstairs in Arliss Bascomb's room changing clothes for the impromptu get-together.

Word had also spread fast about who Matthew really was. When he'd returned to the hotel with Meg, Nettie put him under tough scrutiny. Then simply said:
“I've read you before. All that talent wasted on fire and brimstone that doesn't do much but stir the pot You should write about topics that will carry us into the new century.”

Corkscrew curls bobbing on either side of Mrs. Wilberforce's
wide forehead and net-gloved hands raised to her cheeks, she tsked, “Vernon Wilberforce may be registered here, but my husband is nowhere to be found in this hotel. You may have signed in for him, but you are not my Vernon. What have you done with my husband?”

Gage put his hand lightly on her shoulder to assuage her distress. “Rest assured, Mrs. Wilberforce, he's alive and well.” He hesitated, but knew there was no help for it. “You can find him in the Bozeman jail.”

“Bozeman jail!”
she shrieked, her cheeks becoming two stains of ire. “What's he doing in jail?”

“It's not my place to say.”

“Bozeman jail,” she repeated as if she couldn't quite assimilate the words. But then her eyes narrowed as the words finally took hold. “That man. Just wait until I get my hands on him.”

The porter walked in carrying his violin for the party. “Delbert,” Gage said, taking the fiddle and setting it on the registration counter. “I want you to escort Mrs. Wilberforce to the station and get her on the next train to Bozeman.” Reaching into his coat pocket, Gage withdrew his wallet. “I'll pay for the ticket.”

Mrs. Wilberforce sniffed, delicately pressing a handkerchief at her nostrils. “That's quite generous of you, Mr. Gage. Considering.”

“It's the least I can do.”

“Does my husband's ‘unfortunate stay' have anything to do with one of those stunt articles you write?” She tucked the bills into her pocketbook and snapped the clasp closed with an efficient press of her fingers.

“No.” Then to Delbert, Gage said, “There's the lady's bags.”

Two suitcases sat on the porch of the hotel.

“I'm sorry you came all this way, Mrs. Wilberforce, only to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed isn't the half of it. I wanted to surprise my Vernon.”

“No doubt you'll surprise him in Bozeman.”

With a sigh, Mrs. Wilberforce allowed Delbert to usher her out the doors; then Gage turned toward Mrs. Rothman, who was tacking a paper chain onto the registry counter.

“Such excitement, Mr. Wil—” She caught herself, then frowned a little. “Mr. Gage.”

“Call me Matthew, please”

“I'd rather call you mud for holding out on us. Meg told me you were somebody from the newspapers but I had no idea which one.” Her blue eyes narrowed, then grew soft. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Gundy and the ladies what goings on have taken place here today. This is such a milestone. Meg winning the fly-fishing contest. And being able to keep the money, too. I do have to admit I owe you some thanks, Matthew. If you hadn't given your spot to Meg, none of this would have been possible.”

“Meg did the hard part, and the money is rightfully hers.”

“Having a big city paper behind you made a difference. If you hadn't stepped in and told the locals that you'd print their ignorance in your column, they would have done Meg wrong.” Her lips turned upward in a smile. “The power of the presses. May they always hold such influence.”

“Unless the influence is the wrong kind,” Gage said softly.

The admission came from a place within Gage that
he could freely acknowledge now. In the past, he'd felt that everything he'd ever done had been the selfless thing to do. But standing along the sidelines in Harmony's fishing contest after witnessing the truly selfless acts of Meg Brooks, he knew that he had rarely been in her league.

As if the thought of her made her appear, Meg came down the stairs, the animation in her eyes enchanting. She wore a figured chiffon silk dress with a narrow collar and sleeve. The navy and brown in the print brought out the red hues of her hair. Her eyes met his and she smiled.

“Matthew, I'm glad you're here. It wouldn't be the same without you to help celebrate.”

He brought his hand to her cheek, not caring who observed him in the room filled with hotel guests and those who had been at the fishing competition. “I can't stay.”

In a soft voice, she asked, “Why not?”

“I have to see somebody.”
Somebody about changing our lives.

“Who?”

Her smile was soft as he grazed her lips, heat simmering deep and low. She did that to him. The slightest touch. A mere glance. And his body yearned. Much as his heart yearned for her.

“I'll tell you tomorrow.”

“Yes . . . tomorrow.”

Right after the fishing contest, she'd asked him to ride out to Oliver Stratton's house with her. She'd said that her receiving the money was as much his doing as hers.

“I'll meet you on the hotel porch at nine.”

“Yes, nine.” She gave him a teasing smile. “But don't expect Mr. Bascomb. He truly is retired now.”

“With what you can accomplish, Meg, you don't ever need him again.” He took her hand, squeezed it, then left.

*  *  *

Meg had never been to Oliver Stratton's house before. Seeing it for the first time took her down a peg. She had things so much better than he did. Her brother should have been the one to come. But Wayne saw no wrong in what he'd done, and she doubted he ever would. Meg could never respect him the way she once had, but neither could she turn her back on him. He was family. And now it was her responsibility to fix things.

It hurt her to the quick when she thought about Wayne cheating a man who lived so . . . simply. Wayne had wanted to win so he could be a big man on a fancy campus. Oliver Stratton had wanted to win to put food on the table. Shame seared through her.

“Are you ready?” Matthew asked.

Nodding, Meg kept a firm hold on her purse. She'd never had so much money in one place in her whole life. This meant so much to her. To do right by her family. Hopefully no one would ever know what she had done. It would be disgraceful to the Brookses and she didn't want to look like she was trying to brush aside what Wayne had done. He'd been wrong. But telling everyone about it would serve no purpose. Other lives would be ruined, and one too many had already been hurt. She could make the wrong a right. This wasn't for glorification. Her reason for being here was to do good.

Matthew knocked on the door and it was opened
by a young man in overalls. His nails were marked by dirt, but his hair was clean. Freshly washed from the looks of the neatly combed wet strands.

When Oliver saw Matthew he smiled in recognition. But when he saw Meg, he stilled, the smile flattening into a hard line. It was evident he knew who she was.

The cheater's sister.

“Hello, Mr. Stratton,” Meg said, adding what was obvious but feeling the need for a proper introduction, “I'm Meg Brooks.”

“I know,” Ollie replied.

Matthew put his arm around her shoulder. She didn't need to lean on him but she was glad that he was with her.

“May we come in?” Meg asked, trying to keep a waver of nervousness from her voice.

“The place isn't too fancy,” he responded, evidently thinking she would be offended by the simplicity of the one-room dwelling.

Meg met Oliver's eyes. “I'm sure it's just fine.”

Oliver looked to Matthew. As if he were asking him what this was all about and why Meg was here. If Matthew had an answer written in his eyes, Meg couldn't see.

They were shown inside and ushered to one of the beds—the only place to sit. Meg sat primly with her purse on her lap, her back stiff. She hadn't thought this would be so hard. But it was. She sensed Oliver Stratton was a very proud man. What if he didn't take the money?

Sleeping in a rocking chair by the sunlit window, sat an elderly woman wearing a worn thin house dress and mobcap.

“She's hard of hearing. She won't wake,” Oliver said, following Meg's eyes.

Meg became embarrassed. She shouldn't have stared.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Oliver offered, going toward the stove.

“That won't be necessary,” Meg said, fingering the chain handle of her purse. “I don't want to keep you. I just wanted to . . .” But the words caught in her throat. How did she say she wanted to make amends for the shabby way her brother had behaved?

Oliver sat across from them. “I heard you won the fishing contest.”

Matthew smiled. “She broke the record for most fish caught.”

“I heard that, too.” Oliver knitted his fingers together, put them in his lap, then looked at his shoes. Then up at Meg with a hesitant smile. “You'll have to tell me how you did it.”

“Well, that's really not important,” Meg said, anxious to disclose what had made her come to see him. “What is important is that I have something that belongs to you.”

“Couldn't imagine what that would be.” He scratched behind his ear and looked confused.

Meg opened her purse and withdrew the bills she'd gotten from the bank that morning after cashing the one thousand dollar check. “This is yours.”

Oliver's eyes widened as he looked from the money to Matthew to Meg and back to the money. “That's not mine.”

“It is.” Meg extended her hand and held the currency out to him. “I want you to take it.”

Stubborn pride laced his tone. “I can't do that.”

“It's rightfully yours, Mr. Stratton. I wouldn't be giving it to you if I didn't know for a fact that last year you were the true winner of the contest.”

His gaze lifted to Meg's. “What do you mean? Your brother won.”

“Yes. But not fairly.”

“How do you know?”

“I'd rather not go into the specifics and I would like this transaction to be kept between us.” Meg pressed the money into his hands. “It is yours, make no mistake about it. But you will find no other proof than my word.”