Love's Story (7 page)

At her destination, a wooden sign swung from two ropes. It read: B
UCKMAN
N
EWS
. A bell jingled as she pushed open the door. Inside, the familiar smells of ink and paper filled the room. Frederick Ralston, the blond-haired, fragile-looking newspaper reporter, looked up from his work.

“Hello,” Meredith said.

“Expected you sooner or later.” His voice reminded her of a New York winter day.

“Is there a reason you dislike me?”

His fingers poked at printing blocks. “Just don't like women nosing around in men's business.”

An older man with an apron draped over his thick belly entered from a back room. He wiped his hands when he saw Meredith in her feathered hat and flowing gown. “Well, there, what can I do for you, miss?”

Meredith stepped forward. “Meredith S. Mears, journalist.”

“My hands are dirty.”

“No matter.” Meredith warmed beneath the short man's smile.

“Charlie Dutton.”

“Are you the owner?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“You have a delightful shop.” She made a slow circle of the room. “Mr. Ralston invited me to come and look at an article he wrote about the schooners lost in the harbor.”

“He mentioned it. Let's see what we can find.”

Frederick Ralston's resentful eyes followed her. She flitted about the room to examine the presses until Charlie Dutton returned with the discussed issue.

“Here we are, Miss Mears. You can sit at that table if you like. Take your time.”

“Thank you.” Meredith took the paper and went to the designated table. The article detailing the helpless sailors' plight against the forces of nature moved and saddened her. The coast had abundant resources, which, when harvested, would pile money in some men's pockets. Her fingers traced the printed lines, marking her spot. But how many men would die taming the wild land? The ocean's treacherous rocks, sandbars, and storms could easily splinter the latest design of shipping vessel. They snuffed out men's lives in their prime and left families bereft. Her finger tapped her cheek. Dead men didn't make fortunes. Their risks were another man's gain.

Was it the same in the woods? Instinctively, she knew it was. Asa had said a logger's life span was only seven years. The bull warned about accidents. All of a sudden, it seemed important to ride to Bucker's Stand again. She knew the topic of her first story.

“I'm done here. Thank you for letting me read this.”

“You're welcome,” Charlie Dutton said.

“Are you hiring?” she asked.

“Sorry. It's a small paper, and I have to keep our staff small as well.”

She glanced at the younger, brooding man across the room. “I understand. Thank you again, and good day.”

“Good day, Miss Mears.”

To finish out the day, Meredith compiled her completed articles and sent them off to Asa. Once this was done, she returned to her room and typed far into the night.

The next day she rode out to Bucker's Stand. Jonah had gone a day earlier to set up his equipment at the logging camp. Once she arrived, she stabled her horse. A mass exodus of brawn and boot erupted from the mess hall. Meredith slunk behind a tree to observe. Two men passed nearby, engaged in a shoving contest and shouting loud oaths at one another. Meredith shrank further around the tree.

A moment later she saw Jonah, walking with Silas Cooke.

“Jonah!” Meredith stepped out with her portfolio in hand. “Wait!”

The two men turned back. “I didn't know you were here,” Jonah said.

“I just got here. Hello, Mr. Cooke. On your way to the field?”

“Sure enough,” Silas said.

“I'll just tag along then.”

She chatted with the men until they reached Jonah's equipment. Meredith's eyes widened. Before them spread what looked like a giant spider web, the loggers being the spiders. Her journalistic mind allegorized even as she tried to grasp the operation.

Huge cables strung through pulleys and fastened to the tops of trees sloped downward to the earth. Several loggers worked to fasten these cables to logs. Before Meredith had it all figured out, there was, all of a sudden, a great creaking, then a terrible crashing noise, and one of the huge logs in the midst of them jerked violently and lurched straight up into the sky. Meredith scrambled backwards in terror, letting out a shriek.

Jonah shouted, “Shocked me, too, the first time I saw it.”

Meredith's hands flew to her heaving bosom. Once Jonah's comment sank in, her pulse calmed. She scrambled for a safe spot, somewhere she could observe and stay out from underfoot. A rotting stump looked inviting and removed from the action, and she backed onto it. Her gaze returned to the steam engine yanking giant logs and hurling them up into the air, crashing through any obstacle.

There was a system to the madness. Logs were yanked toward the river, where they would be floated to the mill. Even the ground beneath her shook when the mighty logs rolled or moved. She watched the process with riveted interest and imagined the sorts of accidents that could occur, until a distant physique caught her eye.

Thatcher Talbot helped to fasten the cables. She observed him from her perch and jotted down notes. Hours sped by while she quietly penned words. Once when her concentration broke, she looked up to see Talbot striding toward her. No, not toward her. Jonah seemed to be the object of his wrath.

“Can't use that photograph,” Talbot yelled up at Jonah.

“What?” Jonah called down from his perch.

Instead of answering, Talbot climbed up the scaffolding like a monkey Meredith had once seen at a zoo, until he was nose to nose with Jonah.

Another log lifted and slammed down, drowning out the two men's conversation, but Meredith saw Talbot thumping his finger on Jonah's camera. They argued about a photograph.

She scrambled off the stump and to the bottom of the scaffolding, where she crooked her neck to follow their conversation.

“I do have a say, and I say no!”

“Why don't you wait until they're developed and have a look at them. Then you can decide.”

“I want that plate.” Talbot fumbled for the glass.

Jonah jerked it out of the camera, and Thatcher smacked it against the tree trunk. A large crack zigzagged across the plate. He handed it back to Jonah.

“You can't do that,” Meredith yelled.

Talbot glanced down at her as if she were an insignificant wood tick, then climbed down and brushed past her. The touch of his arm upon hers sent fire shooting up her shoulder. She jerked away.

He halted, as if he felt it, too, cast her a dark look, and strutted away.

She leaned on the bottom of the scaffolding, trembling. “Jonah! I need to speak with you.”

The cameraman's face was flushed. He climbed down and brushed himself off.

“I need to get back to town,” Meredith said.

Jonah nodded. “I'll see you back to camp.”

The two hiked toward the camp in silence until Meredith thought she would explode. “Why did you let him bully you that way? He had no right.”

“He does have a right to say if he doesn't want his photograph published.”

“He did this just to spite me.”

“I don't think so,” Jonah said.

Meredith mulled it over until they reached the camp. “I'm taking this to the bull.”

Jonah snatched at her arm. “Don't. I've plenty of good photographs. We don't need it.”

“You looking for me?” a voice from behind caused Meredith to jump.

“Yes,” she said when she had caught her breath. “One of your men threatened Jonah.”

“How's that?”

“Meredith,” Jonah's voice warned.

“He purposely broke one of Jonah's plates.”

The bull scowled at Meredith with his black eyes. “Some stories are better left untold. Men's lives can be like that.” He tipped his hat and walked off toward his tent.

Her mouth gaped.

“It's not your problem, Storm.”

“I'm a reporter. If…”

“You better leave so you can get to town before dark.”

Jonah's change of topic was like a dousing of cold water, and Meredith's fire sputtered. She backed off. “What about you? Will you be all right here?”

“I'll be fine. I like it here, Storm. Don't ruin it for me.”

Meredith's cheeks burned. “You're right, then. I'd better go.”

That evening Meredith soaked off her trail dust. It was worth the extra effort to use Mrs. Cooper's rustic indoor plumbing. Water first had to be pumped, then emptied by hand. Meredith did her own pumping, but Mrs. Cooper hired a boy to empty the tub for her guests. Meredith rubbed the kinks in her neck and stretched her sore legs out over the edge of the tub. She hoped her articles for
McClure's
magazine would please Asa, her editor. The soft nightgown draped over a nearby chair looked inviting. It wasn't easy to make the long ride out to the camp.

As she bathed, she recited a favorite verse, one that usually uplifted her in weary times. “‘I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.'” The Spirit of God nudged her spirit.
Why were you so mad at Mr. Talbot? Because he's rude and… and… he's hiding something.
She disregarded God's question in lieu of her own.
Why didn't Talbot want his photograph taken? What is Thatcher Talbot's story?
Meredith reached for her towel.

M
eredith awoke to the familiar saying of her editor.
“If you fall off the horse, Storm, you've got to get right back on.”
The horse, in this instance, was her story. And her instincts told her that her story somehow included Thatcher Talbot. Otherwise, why would her thoughts be consumed by him?

She donned her brown riding skirt and rehearsed her plans to ride to Bucker's Stand and get Thatcher Talbot's story.

On her way out of town, Meredith reined in her horse outside the newspaper office and dismounted. In her haste, however, her foot slipped through a crack, undoubtedly carved by some logger's boot, and sent her flailing. She gave a gasp of exasperation and caught her balance.
Take it easy. You know the hazards.
Then at a more dignified pace, she started off again.

The bell rigged on the door of the newspaper office announced her arrival. After a few polite words, Meredith slapped her story down on Charlie Dutton's desk.

“Read this. You can tell me later what you think of it. Good day, gentlemen.”

She strode back to her horse, confident that the newspaper editor would find her article about logging hazards of interest.

Two hours later, at Bucker's Stand, the noises of the steam donkey, falling trees, and singing men led her to the center of activity. Jonah waved from his treehouse studio. She waved back, amazed at the way the city man had adapted himself to the rugged environment and rough-edged lumberjacks.

As usual, Meredith drew some open stares and stolen glances, but she turned a blind eye to all that and put the first phase of her plan into work. Mr. Talbot was peeling the bark off logs. She nestled into the comfortable crook of a low tree branch and reached into her portfolio, aware that Talbot gave her a curious glance. Her back braced against the tree's trunk, she leisurely swung her legs and began to write, ever watchful of Talbot—her tactic to unnerve him enough that he might approach her and begin a conversation.