Love's Story (9 page)

She cast a glance around her, then unfolded it and read:

Presumptuous, indeed.
She stuffed the note into her pocket, took leave of the stableboy, and headed straight for the
Buckman News.
That contrary, pale-faced reporter was probably behind this. It better be some big story, if, indeed, there was a story.

The newsroom door banged and its bell clanged behind Meredith. “Mr. Dutton!”

The elderly editor offered a sheepish smile. Ralston wasn't in the room. “I was expecting you.”

Meredith wrenched the piece of paper from her pocket and waved it. “What is the meaning of this? Is there really a big story?”

“It's as big as twins.”

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to settle in. “Someone had twins?”

Dutton nodded. “Last night Francine Wiley delivered a set of twin boys, and as far as I know they both lived. It's a miracle.”

Meredith tried her hardest not to smile. She knew the survival of twins was a momentous occasion. In a town this size it would be the big story. “You're right. This is today's story.” She set her portfolio upon the closest desk and withdrew a pencil. “Give me directions.”

On her way out the door, she turned back to the newsman. “You do understand this wasn't fair? I am capable of handling both stories and should have been allowed to do so.”

“Perhaps. Time will tell. Now hurry up and get your story before the whole town gets it on their own, firsthand.”

“Humph!” The door banged again, and Dutton chuckled.

Meanwhile at Bucker's Stand, an amazing thing took place. None of the loggers, including the bull, could hear often enough the marvelous things that had been written about themselves.

Thatcher Talbot refolded the worn, now fragile, newspaper in a reverent gesture and laid it back on the mess hall table. When he read his quote, his heart swelled with appreciation. The reporter would not praise without merit. She had seen into their souls. She understood.

Ever since he had laid eyes on her on the train, she had intrigued him, her beauty and spirit slinking their way into his inner being. If she was this perceptive, this deeply moved, perhaps she was worth knowing.

But his life held so many uncertainties right now that it wouldn't be wise to form any kind of an attachment. He shook his head. The eastern reporter had wormed her contrary self into his every thought and emotion, and he didn't know what to do about it. And now, her name was praise on every man's lips in the camp.

Someone entered the tent, and Thatcher looked up. “Silas,” he motioned. “What do you think of this article?”

Mrs. Cooper was as pleased as a woodpecker in a dead tree, doing what she liked to do best, entertain.

“Pass the meat, dear,” Mrs. Cooper said. “Miss Mears used to write the society column in New York City.”

“How very interesting,” Beatrice Bloomfield, the banker's wife, said. “You must find it very dull in Buckman's Pride.”

“Indeed not.” Meredith smiled at the woman, so near her own age, the one who had snubbed her in town. “Just the other day, the Wiley twins were born. Did you read my article?”

“Well yes, I did. But we both know that's a rare occasion.”

“Nonsense. This town is a writer's dream come true.”

“And how is that?” The dark-haired beauty asked.

“Buckman's Pride oozes with adventure, Wild West, romance, interesting people, and determination. I like the spirit of this town.”

“As do I,” Jonah said as he stabbed a piece of meat with his fork. “I'll find it very hard to leave.”

“Must you leave?” Mrs. Cooper asked.

“I'll give that question some serious thought.” His intense gaze made Mrs. Cooper's blue eyes sparkle in the same cornflower blue as the floral-patterned coffee cup poised next to her cheek.

“We would consider you a valuable addition to our community,” The banker replied.

“And you?” Beatrice Bloomfield asked, her brown-eyed gaze fixed on Meredith.

“I plan to return. My father lives in New York.”

“Oh? Does he greatly influence your life, my dear?” Mrs. Cooper asked.

“Yes, I suppose he does,” Meredith said. There was a general silence around the table, and Mrs. Cooper passed the food again. Finally, Meredith asked, “Is there a women's auxiliary in Buckman's Pride?”

“Why, yes. We have the Women's Circle, which does charitable deeds,” Beatrice Bloomfield said. Her thin lips formed a smug smile.

“May I come to one of your meetings?” Meredith asked. “I could do an article on your work.”

“Well, I couldn't say without discussing it first with the other ladies.”

“We have a meeting next Monday night, don't we, Beatrice?” Mrs. Cooper asked. “I'll remind you to bring it up.”

“But it might interfere with Miss Mears's more important projects, traipsing off to Bucker's Stand and all.”

“Traipsing?” Meredith repeated in an insulted tone.

“You do ride unaccompanied to the men's camp.”

“I escort her or meet her at the camp,” Jonah said.

Meredith cleared her throat. “I would not traipse in New York. But,” she shrugged, “here in the wild…”

“You assume incorrectly,” Mrs. Bloomfield said. “I also am from a city, Chicago. And I find your conduct here…”

“It is Miss Mears's story that is important.” Mrs. Cooper gave Meredith a look of censure, yet flew into a long-winded exoneration on her part. “You see, long after Miss Mears has gone back to New York City, the things remembered will be her stories about Buckman's Pride and Bucker's Stand. Folks who read her articles back in the East won't know that Miss Mears got her story traipsing across the country in men's clothing.” Amelia Cooper gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

Beatrice Bloomfield's eyebrows arched.

Amelia recovered and said, “But the things she writes are what they'll remember.”

Meredith cast Mrs. Cooper a grateful glance. The woman had tried to defend her, even if she did have a slip of the tongue.

“We shall see,” Mrs. Bloomfield said. “What a delightful dinner this has been.” She pushed back her chair.

The men at the table bumbled to their feet when Mrs. Bloomfield stood.

“Mrs. Bloomfield, would you like to see my studio?”

“Perhaps some other time, sir.”

“I would like to see it,” The quiet-mannered banker said.

“It really is something to see, Beatrice,” Amelia Cooper urged.

As the group of dinner guests moved outside to view Jonah's photograph studio, Mrs. Cooper squeezed Meredith's arm. “Come along with us, dear.”

Meredith trailed behind the group, headed up by Jonah, then Herbert Bloomfield, the banker, whose gait was quite enthusiastic. His wife's hand remained looped through his arm, where he'd placed it, but her back was rigidly straight. Jonah gestured and chatted, and Mrs. Cooper turned to wait for Meredith.

“Don't let that woman intimidate you,” Amelia whispered. “I have every bit as much say in this town as she does.”

“Let's hope Jonah can impress her,” Meredith whispered.

His studio enthralled Mr. Bloomfield and held the others' attention. Jonah explained some of the chemical processes involved in dry-plate photography and showed them photographs of the waterfalls from their trip.

“These are of the logging camp. I'm going to send them to
McClure's
magazine to go along with Miss Mears's articles.”

Herbert Bloomfield adjusted his glasses. “They are quite good.”

“I would love to take a photograph of the two of you.” Jonah included the banker's beautiful wife in his gaze. “You could frame it to hang in the bank.”

“Oh. I wouldn't want to be so prideful,” Beatrice Bloomfield said.

“Not at all. If anything, it adds an air of respectability to an establishment.”

“Really?” she asked. She released her husband's arm and moved closer to Jonah. “And where would you take this photograph?”

Jonah shrugged. “Anywhere you like.”

“That does give us something to think about, doesn't it, Herbert?”

“And Meredith could write a caption to put beneath the photograph. Couldn't you?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Meredith said with an appreciative smile.

“It's settled then,” Mrs. Cooper declared.

I
see you and Mrs. Cooper are on a first-name basis now,” Jonah said.

“I was wrong about Amelia,” Meredith said. She hovered over Jonah's shoulder as he coated albumen paper with a silver solution.

“I'm just glad to see the two of you getting along.”

“Me, too. Those are great, Jonah.”

“They could be better. See the shadows there? I'm still experimenting with the lens to get the lighting the way I want it.”

“I've never seen you use flash powder.”

He shook his head. “Don't like it.” Meredith browsed around the studio. “You working on a problem?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Usually, when you get that expression, you're sorting out a problem.”

“I guess I am. Maybe you can help. I need you to take a special photograph.”

He looked up from his work. “That shouldn't be a problem. What do you need?”

“I need a photograph of Thatcher Talbot.”

Jonah grinned. “Lovesick, are you?”

“Of course not. This is strictly business.”

“Seriously, Storm, you know I promised him I wouldn't take his photograph. I gave my word.”

“He'll never know.” Meredith leaned her elbow on the studio worktable, close to Jonah. “Listen. I think our Mr. Talbot is a wanted man. If there's a story on him, it's worth a look.”

Jonah jerked the thin paper. “I don't like it, Storm. I like Thatcher. Anyway, if he were a wanted man, he could be dangerous.”

“I just want a photograph to send back to Asa. I'll let him do the investigation.”

“And if he uncovers something?”

“Then I'll bring my finds to you, and we'll make the decision together.”

“Even if I wanted to help you, he's too smart, too cautious. I'd never get the photograph.”

“I'll distract him for you.”

“How? No, wait!” His hand shot up. “Don't tell me. I don't want to know.”

“Does that mean you'll help me?”

“I don't know, Storm. I'll have to think about it.”

“I'm riding out to Bucker's Stand tomorrow. I'd like it if you went along.” Jonah sighed, and Meredith said, “I know. You have to think about it. Take all the time you want as long as you let me know by tomorrow morning. I'll let you get back to work now.”