Truth Be Told (4 page)

A
re you sure you want this story on the Columbian Exposition in Chicago at the bottom of the page?”

Amelia looked up from composing a summary of Pastor Edmonds's latest sermon, speaking out against the brothels that carried on their shady business near the south edge of town. She paused a moment to consider Homer's question. He had worked with her father for years and had a finely honed instinct for story placement. But she was the one in charge of the paper now. She had the final say.

“Yes. It may be a big national story, but local news comes first.”

A wide grin split Homer's face. “Good. That's what your daddy would have said.”

Amelia chuckled at the compliment and went back to work, marveling at the way the ripple of laughter served to dispel some of the tension that had weighed her down ever since she marched back to the
Gazette
from her father's graveside three weeks before. In that time, she had discovered there was a vast difference between being able to perform various tasks that
went into producing the paper, and being the one actually at the helm.

She had Homer to consider, as well. His livelihood was as dependent upon the success of the paper as her own. That knowledge doubled her feeling of responsibility.

She glanced down again at Pastor Edmonds's message. Her father would have approved. He had been just as outspoken about the degrading brothel trade in his editorials, while at the same time expressing compassion for the women forced into that sordid life. After putting the finishing touches on the sermon summary, she donned her printer's apron and moved over to help Homer at the press. Taking the brayer from him, she rolled it through the puddle of ink on the marble slab, then applied the ink to the form on the bed of the press while he slid a sheet of newsprint into place. Turning the crank on the left side of the press, he rolled the bed under the platen before pulling on the lever to print the page. Working together, they fell into an easy rhythm.

“There aren't many idle moments for the two of us, are there.” Amelia laughed. “Between the paper and the other print jobs that come in, there's more than enough work to keep us busy. However did you manage on your own while Papa was ill?”

“I put in plenty of long hours—that's for sure. But I'm not complaining. Your father was as good a friend as I've ever met. He was there for me when I needed help, and I was happy to return the favor.” Homer started to turn the crank again but stopped abruptly when the bed jammed halfway along its track.

Amelia stared at him. “What just happened?”

Homer crouched down to look underneath the apparatus. “Looks like one of the leather belts broke. We won't be printing any more sheets until I get that fixed.”

Amelia stooped and saw the end of the dangling leather strap. “What can I do to help?”

“It's pretty much a one-man job. I had Carl Olsen make up a couple of spares so we'd be ready the next time this happened. Why don't you check the pages we've already printed while I tinker with this. If they're dry, you can gather them up so we can print the other side.” Catching her anxious expression, he added in a reassuring tone, “I'll have it up and running in time to get the paper out—never fear.”

Retrieving a coiled strip of leather from a shelf below the counter, he grabbed a wrench and crawled underneath the press. “‘We make a kind of handsome show! Among these hills, from first to last, we've weathered many a furious blast.'”

Amelia smiled. Despite his soothing words and the quoted lines of poetry, the strain in his voice indicated a level of tension equal to her own. Homer always spouted poetry when under pressure.

Or when he'd been tippling. Amelia shook her head, remembering a few unhappy scenes during her youth. But he'd finally sworn off liquor under her father's beneficial influence, with only a few minor relapses since.

She gathered the dry pages and wondered—not for the first time—if she had done the right thing in not putting the
Gazette
up for sale yet. That weighty question had kept her awake well into the night more times than she cared to count.

Watching Homer work, she took note of his worn appearance. Shouldering so much of the load during her father's
illness and since his death had taken a toll, even with all the help she could offer.

To be honest, she'd been feeling frazzled herself, and not only from the pressures of running the newspaper. Upon hearing the news of Andrew Wagner's death, her mother insisted Amelia return to Denver posthaste. Every new letter reiterated her demand in no uncertain terms. Reading between the lines, however, Amelia thought her mother's tone sounded more interested in the quest to find her daughter a suitable husband than in having the comfort of Amelia's company while she grieved.

She shrugged off the unpleasant notion. Whatever her mother's reasons for insisting she return, she couldn't just walk away from the
Gazette
and Homer. Her father wouldn't have wanted that.

She heaved a long sigh, wishing she could expel her sense of despondency along with the
whoosh
of air, and then squared her shoulders. Yearning for things to be different didn't make them so. Until she could afford to hire additional help—or find a suitable buyer—they would all just have to muddle along the best they could.

Maybe it would be better for everyone if she took Owen Merrick up on his offer. Homer would then be free to look for other employment. Over the years, he had been her father's staunchest ally and was loyal to a fault. He cared about her, too. She had no doubt he would sacrifice himself to keep on helping her as long as she continued running the paper. And it would be a sacrifice, no doubt about it. The work was hard, and Homer wasn't getting any younger.

And she would be free to behave as a good daughter should
and return to her widowed mother's side. A shudder rippled through her. The idea of going back to Denver wasn't a thought she wanted to entertain.

The door to the street swung open. Amelia fixed a smile on her face when a woman about her mother's age stepped inside. She wiped a smudge of ink off her fingers with a well-used rag and stepped forward to greet her.

Her willowy visitor inclined her head and gave Amelia a gentle smile. “Good day, my dear. I don't believe we've met. My name is Hyacinth Parmenter. My late husband was an avid reader of the
Gazette
while he was alive.”

“I'm pleased to meet you. I'm—”

“Oh, I know who you are.” Mrs. Parmenter waved away the attempted introduction. “I wanted to give you some time to recover from your loss before stopping in again.”

“Again?” Amelia heard a faint clink from behind her and glanced back in time to see Homer scoot farther under the press.

“I used to stop by on occasion to chat with your father. Such a pleasure to find a man of culture in these rough surroundings.”

Amelia nodded and tapped her fingertips against the bottom edge of the counter, wondering what prompted Mrs. Parmenter's visit . . . and how soon the woman would leave so she could get back to work. “Is there anything I can do for you today?”

Mrs. Parmenter's face lit up. “It's a matter of what I can do for you.” Reaching into her reticule, she drew out a folded sheet of paper and spread it on the counter with a flourish. “I've written a poem I believe will prove edifying to your readers.”

Amelia stared at the woman a moment, then bent to study the written lines:

Ode to the Dawn

As golden orb peeks o'er shadowed hills

And lark responds with honey'd trills. . . .

“Oh, my.” Her eyes widened as she skimmed the rest of the flowery verse. “I . . . see,” she said when she finished. “Thank you, but—”

“I let your father read several of my pieces, and he was most appreciative of the sentiments expressed. During his illness, I brought some of them by to show your assistant, Mr. Crenshaw. I hoped he might want to share them with your readers as a way to provide uplifting thoughts during that trying time. Sadly, he was never able to find space for them, but I thought I might try again, now that you're in charge and some of the burden has been lifted from the dear man's shoulders.”

Amelia blinked. “We've already set the type for most of this week's issue. I'm afraid we won't be able to fit it in.”

The other woman continued to smile, undaunted by the news. “Then I shall leave this with you for the next issue. I'll bring more in next week, and that way we will be able to stay ahead of schedule.” She sent a quick glance around the printing office. “Where is Mr. Crenshaw today? I assumed he would be hard at work, printing tomorrow's edition.”

Amelia cast a furtive look over her shoulder, but there was no response from beneath the press. “He's . . . busy. I'll be sure to let him know you were here.”

Hyacinth Parmenter smiled her thanks and swept away. The
door opened as she neared it, and the new arrival stepped back to allow her to exit before he came inside.

Amelia pushed the poem to one side and moved along the counter to greet Pete Nichols. The owner of the Bon-Ton had placed advertisements for the new café on a weekly basis . . . up until her father died. And he wasn't the only one who had stepped back to see if the paper would survive. That wasn't unusual whenever there was a change in a newspaper's ownership, but their dwindling advertising revenues only added to her worries about the paper's future.

“Good morning, Mr. Nichols. How can I help you?”

He pulled off his bowler hat and twisted the brim in his hands, avoiding her gaze. “Morning, Miss Wagner. I'd like to start running my ad again.”

Her smile widened. If one businessman took the lead in reestablishing his connection with the paper, other advertisers might follow. “I'm glad to hear that. We'll be pleased to have your custom again.”

He glanced at her quickly, then averted his eyes again. “I know I should have come in before now. I just wasn't sure you'd be able to pull it off and keep the paper going after your father was gone. Homer is a good man, but it's a lot for one person to run on his own.” Looking at Amelia's ink-stained fingers, he added, “Looks like you're pitching right in, though. I'm glad to see that. We need a good newspaper around here.”

Amelia retrieved a sheet of paper and a pencil. “What would you like the ad to say?”

“Just use the same thing I've been running all along.” One corner of his lips lifted. “I haven't been open long enough to need many changes yet.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and
nodded. “I can see you're busy, so I won't take up any more of your time. Just let me know how much I owe you, and expect me to come back soon to have some new menus printed up.”

Amelia hummed a light tune as she moved to the press. If she shortened her summary of Pastor Edmonds's sermon, the café's ad could go in that week's issue, providing them with additional revenue. Remembering Mrs. Parmenter's poem, she pushed away a twinge of guilt. The poem was only filler, but Mr. Nichols was a paying customer.

With that decision made, she bent to check on Homer's progress. He lay on his back, with most of his body hidden by the press and only his spindly legs sticking out. “Any luck?”

“Almost there. Thanks for not giving me away to the Parmenter woman.”

Amelia leaned back against the counter and grinned. “You didn't seem to be in any hurry to speak to her,
dear man
.”

A muffled groan floated out from beneath the press. “I made the mistake of telling her I enjoy poetry. That was before I saw that cloying claptrap she writes. Now she's decided we're kindred sprits.”

Amelia chuckled. “It sounds to me like you have an admirer.”

A loud snort was Homer's only response. “I meant to tell you, I put the mail on the desk in your office earlier. You might want to look through it.” He cleared his throat. “There's a letter lying on top. Looks like it's another one from your mother.”

Amelia felt her shoulders tighten. Walking to the office, she scooped up the stack of mail and carried it back out to the counter. If other customers stopped in, she would be able to deal with them and let Homer keep working without inter
ruption. They needed to have the press up and running again as soon as possible if they hoped to stay on schedule.

She sorted through the mail quickly. Homer was right—the letter on top of the stack was indeed from her mother. She set it aside so she could check the other mail first. There might be some important business correspondence awaiting her notice.

Be honest. You just don't
want to read her letter. But you'll have to
open it eventually.

To her disappointment, she found nothing in the rest of the mail that demanded her attention. With no excuse to put it off any longer, she picked up the envelope with the Denver postmark. She slit the flap, bracing herself for another round of entreaties for her to come back home.

Even without opening the envelope, she knew the kind of phrases she could expect to find. First the tender pleas:
“Please come home, darling. Everyone
is asking about you.”

Then the more strident questions:
“
How long are you going to persist in this foolishness
of trying to operate that paper on your own?”

Leading up to what her mother would perceive as her most compelling argument:
“Your father is gone. Staying in Arizona
isn't going to change that.”

As if she needed any reminder! Every morning she opened her eyes, ready to begin the new day, only to have the jolting memory of her loss wound her afresh.

And despite her pain, she still had to get out of bed and force herself to go on. Her conviction that she could honor her father by continuing his work was the only thing that helped her get through one day to the next.