Truth Be Told (5 page)

She tapped the envelope against her finger, sure she had already summed up the letter's contents. Was there any point in even opening it? It would be simple enough to put it away in a drawer, unread.

Simple, but not right. Trying to put aside the resentment she felt over the mounting pressure to comply with her mother's wishes, she pulled the envelope open along the slit she had made, slid out the letter, and unfolded it. After she skimmed the first few lines, she uttered a cry, and the sheets of stationery slipped from her fingers.

Homer pushed himself out from underneath the press and scrambled to his feet. “What's wrong?”

“It's my mother.”

Homer hurried over to her, worry creasing his face. “She hasn't taken ill, too, has she?”

“Worse. She's gotten married.”

“Married! With your daddy barely in his grave?”

“It's her old sweetheart, Thaddeus Grayson—the man my grandparents would have preferred she married in the first place.” Amelia stooped to pick up the scattered pages with fingers that trembled. “He lived in the East for quite a while, but he returned to Denver a little over a year ago. They've been . . . keeping company for some time now. With Papa gone, I suppose they felt it cleared the way for them to wed.”

Homer swiped his fingers through his hair, leaving a streak of mingled ink and grease across his forehead. “Hardly seems respectful to your father . . . or respectable, for that matter.”

Amelia forced herself to scan the rest of the letter. “She is quite insistent that I come back to Denver. They've established their own household—a lavish one, I'm sure, since he's quite
well-off—so we won't be living with my grandparents anymore. She says the three of us will be a family.”

“You don't sound any too thrilled about that. But would it be such a bad thing? I know you and your mother don't always see eye to eye, but family is important.”

“Not if that family includes Thaddeus Grayson.” Ignoring Homer's startled expression, she stepped around him to slip Hyacinth Parmenter's poem into a file for future use. Watching Mr. Grayson dance attendance on her mother had been hard enough to bear, but his attention didn't always stay focused on her mother. After dodging his unwanted advances the few times he'd caught her alone, Amelia had taken to her room any time she knew he would be coming over.

To live in a home where he would be the head of the household, where he could corner her at any moment . . .

Any doubts she had about staying on to run the
Gazette
vanished like the dew on a sunny Arizona morning.

Turning back to Homer, she laid one hand on his slender arm. “I'm not going back. I'm going to stay here and carry on my father's legacy. Between the two of us, we'll make the
Granite Springs
Gazette
the finest paper in this part of the territory.”

Homer eyed her doubtfully, then patted her hand and smiled. “‘If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.'” He dropped her a wink before ducking back under the press, while Amelia chuckled at his playful use of the line from Macbeth.

The door opened again, and a tall woman entered. Amelia recognized her as the one who stood next to Martin Gilbreth at the cemetery.

“Afternoon. I'm Clara Gilbreth, Martin Gilbreth's sister. I expect you're acquainted with him.”

Fine lines etched Clara Gilbreth's face, giving her features even more resemblance to the weather-beaten sawmill owner than Amelia had observed at the cemetery.

“Yes, I've known him for several years now. I remember seeing you with him at my father's funeral.” Amelia braced herself for the outpouring of sympathy she had come to expect upon every mention of her father's death.

Instead, the other woman merely dipped her head in a brief nod. “I figured you probably did, although I wouldn't have blamed you if you didn't recall. I know how foggy your mind can get when you're burying a parent. I laid both of mine to rest this past winter.”

“Both of them?” Tears stung Amelia's eyes. “I'm so sorry.”

Clara pressed her lips together and swallowed quickly. “They had a good life and finished the race nearly neck and neck. Ma outlived our pa by only a few weeks, and that's the way they would have wanted it. These things are hard, but the good Lord knows what He's doing. Now they can walk the golden streets hand in hand and never have to say good-bye again.”

A smile softened Amelia's lips. “That's a lovely way to look at it. I'm so pleased to meet you. I didn't realize Mr. Gilbreth had a sister.”

Clara shrugged. “There's another sister and a brother back in Indiana, but they're both married and have families of their own. When Martin moved out here, we talked about me coming, too. But we decided it was best for me to stay behind to take care of our folks. Now I'm out here to keep house for Martin, since he and I are both on our own.”

Amelia's smile broadened. “When I saw you at the cemetery, I thought at first you might be his wife.”

The other woman let out a bark of laughter. “Neither Martin nor I ever married, and we're neither one likely to. We're both too set in our ways, and I have a tendency to speak my mind. Most men don't appreciate that in a woman.”

Amelia touched her fingertips to her lips to hold back a laugh. Clara's forthrightness might not make her a prime candidate for matrimony, but she found the older woman's attitude refreshing.

“But I didn't come here to tell you my life's story. I wanted to see if you still have a couple of the papers that came out about a month ago. There was a story about the sawmill, and I'd like to send copies to my brother and sister. I should have thought of it earlier, but I hoped you might have some left.”

“I'm not sure.” Amelia turned and called to Homer, “Do you think we'd have any of those back issues available?”

Homer emerged from under the press wearing a triumphant grin and gave the apparatus an affectionate pat. “She's all set now. Ready to print the rest of this issue.” Nodding toward their visitor, he added, “I know the story she means. We don't print a lot of extras, but we might have a couple left over. They'd probably be back in the storeroom. I'll go take a look.”

Clara leaned on the counter and eyed Amelia. “What about you? Is running a newspaper something you always wanted to do, or did you just fall into it when your pa died?”

Amelia caught her breath. The other woman could have no idea how close her remark hit home. A flutter of excitement rippled through her at the realization that she would, indeed, be the one running the
Gazette
from now on. “A little
of both, actually. I grew up helping my father here and loved every minute of it. I've been doing a bit of work for a paper in Denver and coming back here to spend time with my father in the summers. It always felt like something I was born to do . . . but I never thought I'd be the one in charge.”

“Life can take some funny turns,” Clara mused. She straightened when Homer returned with two folded copies of the
Gazette.
He cast a sideways look at her when he placed them on the counter, then he scuttled back toward the storeroom.

Clara glanced at the papers and laid some coins on the counter. “Those are the ones I wanted, all right. Now I'd best get out of your hair. I know you have to get the paper out tomorrow, but I may stop in again some day when you aren't so busy. I enjoy talking to you. It's better than trying to make conversation with some simpering female who can only talk about babies or tatting or such.”

Amelia watched the door swing shut behind their visitor, then turned back to work feeling like her day had brightened. Clara Gilbreth's visit had been a fresh breeze, sweeping away some of the gloom that had been weighing upon her.

Homer came back carrying a bundle of paper and looked around warily. “Is she gone?”

“Miss Gilbreth? Yes, she just left.” Amelia studied him, puzzled. “Why? Don't you like her?”

He thumped the paper down on the counter next to the press. “Old maids like her—or widows like that Parmenter woman—make me nervous. It always feels like they're on the prowl.”

Amelia bit back a smile at the thought of scrawny Homer as the target of a gaggle of predatory husband hunters. “You
might be right about our local poetess, but has Miss Gilbreth ever said or done anything to make you think she's set her cap for you?”

“No, but I've seen enough of her kind over the years. I know the signs. When women reach a certain age without finding a husband, they turn desperate. I've watched some good men be caught off guard and snapped up like fried chicken at a church picnic when they weren't paying attention.”

Despite her efforts, a chuckle gurgled from Amelia's lips. “I don't think you have anything to worry about with her. Besides,” she teased, “if she does decide to come after you, I'll be here to protect you.”

Homer gave her a baleful look accompanied by a
harrumph.
Then a grin lit up his face. “I guess that would make you my hero, then.” He turned on his heel. “Let's both be heroic and get this paper out.”

Amelia moved to pull the last printed page from the tympan and hung it up to dry while Homer replaced it with a fresh sheet. Their brief exchange reminded her of the banter Homer and her father shared over the years. It always made her laugh to hear them, and it did the same today.

She had laughed during Clara's visit, as well, and she felt much better for it. How right King Solomon had been when he penned the proverb about a merry heart doing good like a medicine!

Several hours later, Amelia folded the last paper and laid it atop the others in the stack with a sense of satisfaction. “That's the last one. We made our deadline.”

“We've never missed one yet.” Homer stretched his arms wide and rolled his neck from side to side.

Ten-year-old Jimmy Brandt burst through the front door as if on cue. “Are the papers ready to deliver yet?”

“You're right on time.” Amelia smiled as she helped their eager delivery boy load the latest issue of the
Gazette
into his ink-smudged canvas bag. “If I didn't know better, I'd think some sort of signal goes up the moment we finish. You always seem to know exactly when to come.”

“I must have ink in my veins, the same way you and Mr. Crenshaw say you do. In fact . . .” He puffed out his chest and stood a little straighter. “I picked up a great idea for a story on the way here. I heard Jack Canby tell Danny Morgan someone stole his bag of marbles. That's the third time I've heard of the same happening lately, and I'm pretty sure Skeeter Perry is the one behind it. I think we ought to check into it and print a story that proves he's guilty. What do you think? I'd be glad to write it for you. Then all you'd have to do is set the type.”

Amelia bit back a laugh, unwilling to wipe the eager look from his face. “I'll certainly think about it. In the meantime, you'd better get this week's edition out. We need to keep the
Gazette
in business if you're going to be a star reporter someday.”

With a grin, the youngster shouldered his canvas bag and hustled off to make his deliveries.

Homer smoothed his cuffs and grimaced when he saw splotches of grease near his elbow. “I guess I should change my shirt and spruce up a bit before I head out to make my deliveries.” With a wave of his hand, he headed toward the rear door. “I'll be back in a bit.”

Amelia leaned against the counter and drew a deep breath, savoring the sense of a job well done. The moment an issue was finished always brought a sense of respite, even though it was only a momentary break in the continual process of gathering and printing the news.

Lifting the topmost paper from the stack remaining on the counter, she shook it open and scanned the front page. A frown tightened her forehead. Yes, they had completed the job on time, but the week brought little news of any import. The same information could have been gleaned through the local grapevine. That wouldn't be enough to keep subscribers—or advertisers—coming back for more.

She tossed the paper onto the counter and paced the width of the printing office. She and Homer diligently printed every scrap of news they came across, but they needed to do more if they hoped to entice more readers to buy the paper—or advertisers to keep giving their support. The smaller print jobs that came in—restaurant menus, flyers, invitations, and the like—bolstered their income, but they would have to make a success of the
Gazette,
as well, if they hoped to remain afloat financially.

But how was she supposed to do that when Jimmy's tidbit about the marbles theft had been one of the most exciting things in Granite Springs that week? She couldn't very well manufacture news on a whim.

Memories stirred, and her steps slowed. Hadn't her father always maintained that big stories were always there, just waiting to be found? He likened it to someone hunting for ore in gold-rich country. Its presence was certain—all she had to do was keep digging.