Dreams Rekindled Read online

  Brandon was still amazed by how much he’d accomplished in a little more than twenty-four hours. “Not only an office, but a home too. I moved into the Taylor place this morning.” It might not be perfect, but it was as close to perfection as he could have hoped for.

  “I’ve never seen the inside,” Mrs. Clark said, “but I heard it had fallen into disrepair.”

  “Not too bad. Some mice took up residence in the kitchen, but I evicted them. I should have the press and my office set up before nightfall.”

  He’d decided that the former residents’ parlor would become the office, while the dining room would house the press and all the printing materials. Both of those rooms faced the street, making them well suited for a business. The kitchen and bedroom that occupied the back half of the house would give him a place to eat and sleep. That was all he needed right now.

  “Then you’re ready to write the first issue.” Mrs. Clark’s voice trailed off at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Holloway.” Brandon recognized the voice even before the woman who’d introduced herself as Laura Downey yesterday reached the table to lay the plates in front of him and Dorothy’s mother. “I hope you and Mrs. Clark enjoy your meals. I’ve gotten a lot of compliments on the dumplings.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be delicious, Miss Downey.”

  As she had yesterday, the woman whose coloring seemed a pale version of Dorothy’s gave him a warm smile. “Laura. Please call me Laura.”

  Mrs. Clark seemed not to notice that Laura hadn’t addressed her directly, or, if she had, she was amused by it, for she appeared to be trying to stifle laughter. “I didn’t realize you served customers, Laura. I’m surprised you have the time.” Mrs. Clark turned her gaze to Brandon as she explained, “Laura does most of the cooking, which is good for Mesquite Springs’s residents. My daughter has many talents, but cooking is not one of them. Laura, however, is an accomplished chef.”

  Laura shrugged. “That might be an exaggeration,” she said, “but I do enjoy cooking.” She flashed another smile at Brandon. “I’ll leave you to your meals now.”

  Though Brandon was certain it must have been accidental that Laura’s hand brushed his as she turned away, Mrs. Clark’s pursed lips said otherwise.

  “It seems you’ve got yourself an admirer,” the older woman said when Laura had returned to the kitchen.

  But Brandon didn’t want an admirer. He was far from ready to think about love and marriage.

  CHAPTER

  Three

  Xavier. Phil frowned at the name of the town Holloway had reluctantly admitted was his last home. The way the man had bristled when Phil had asked had told him there was a story there, one the newspaperman didn’t want to share, and that had made Phil all the more determined to discover what there was in Brandon Holloway’s past that made him so secretive.

  The problem was, Phil had never heard of Xavier. It was probably one of those towns in the eastern part of the state that he’d ignored, because Mr. K had said he was looking for a place farther west. Phil knew nothing about Xavier, Texas, but odds were good that Brother Josiah had been there. The man whose preaching had mesmerized audiences throughout the Lone Star State had been to almost every corner of Texas.

  If anyone knew what had happened to Holloway in Xavier, it would be Brother Josiah. That was why Phil was on his way to send him a letter.

  “C’mon, Dusty. You can go a bit faster.” It was a two-hour ride to Grassey, the closest town with a telegraph office. Ever cautious, Mr. K had warned him about sending mail from Mesquite Springs. “Go somewhere where no one knows you,” he’d said. “You only need to check for mail once a week.”

  That made sense. Everything Mr. K did made sense. Even if he’d had doubts, Phil would have done whatever he said, knowing he owed complete loyalty and more to the man who’d been the closest thing to a father that Phil had had in decades.

  “Where do you suppose Brother Josiah is?” It was probably silly, talking to a horse, but Dusty never seemed to mind, and it helped Phil sort through his thoughts. Right now, those thoughts were focused on the charismatic preacher he’d met in a small town east of El Paso. Phil had already dismissed the town as not meeting Mr. K’s requirements, but since he’d had nothing else to do, he’d followed the crowd to the big white tent where Brother Josiah was holding a revival meeting.

  It was a night Phil would never forget. He’d watched in awe and admiration as the man in the white robe held his audience spellbound. No parson Phil had ever met had preached like that. After the service ended, he stayed to congratulate Brother Josiah and was shocked when the man invited him to join him for a drink.

  “I thought I recognized a kindred spirit,” Brother Josiah said when Phil explained that he was on a reconnaissance trip for his employer. “Both of us are looking for fruitful opportunities.” He winked as he pronounced the word fruitful, then darted a glance at the baskets filled with tonight’s offering. “If you hear of a town that might benefit from some good old-fashioned preaching, let me know. I’ll make it worth your while. And if I can help you, here’s how to reach me.”

  Though Brother Josiah had no permanent home, he explained that letters sent to San Antonio would be forwarded to him wherever he was. “I’ve got a good feeling about this,” he said.

  Phil had agreed. He and Brother Josiah were what Esther used to call peas in a pod. They both knew the value of money—lots of it—and of never underestimating the opposition. Brother Josiah was the right man to help Phil uncover Holloway’s secrets, and when he did . . .

  Phil chuckled at the prospect.

  She was being as silly as Laura. Dorothy frowned as she placed the hat on her head for what felt like the hundredth time, tilting it ever so slightly to the left. It wasn’t as if she were about to meet the president. All she was doing was going for a walk. There was no reason to fuss so much over her appearance.

  Today was the fourth day since Brandon Holloway had come to Mesquite Springs, and it seemed that both he and Laura had fallen into a routine. Each day Brandon came to Polly’s Place for his midday meal. Each day Laura kept peeking out the kitchen door, almost as if she didn’t trust Dorothy to tell her when he arrived. And when he did, she insisted on taking Brandon’s meal to him, returning to the kitchen with the same report: there was no question about it; he was the man she was meant to marry.

  Finally satisfied with the angle of the hat, Dorothy secured it with two of her prettiest hatpins, then descended the stairs. Once a quick look confirmed that nothing in the kitchen needed her attention, she opened the back door and stepped out into the alley. There was still another hour before the sun would set, enough time for what she intended.

  A sigh escaped her lips as she realized that she wasn’t as silly as Laura; she was sillier. She would never marry, but no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about Brandon. Not as a husband, of course, but as a man who intrigued her. He might be handsome; he might be charming, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was doing what she longed to do—changing the world with his words.

  Laura viewed Brandon as a potential spouse; Dorothy saw him as a potential . . . She paused, not certain how to complete the sentence. “Employer” didn’t sound right. She knew that most small newspapers were one-man shows, with the emphasis on “man.” Women rarely played a role in the writing or printing process. That had been the reason she hadn’t put her name on the article she’d written about Mesquite Springs and Wyatt’s horse sale last spring. Since it had accompanied Wyatt’s advertisement of the sale, the editors who’d printed it had undoubtedly assumed that Wyatt had been the author.

  It was possible Brandon was like them, believing that women should confine themselves to the kitchen and the nursery, but though she hardly knew him, Dorothy did not believe that was the case. She sensed depths to him that she had not seen in other men. There was the courtesy he extended to everyone from the small child who
’d bumped his table and spilled Brandon’s coffee to the dowager who’d announced to the world that newspapers were a tool of the devil.

  Other men were courteous. What gave Dorothy pause was the deep sadness she’d seen in his eyes. On the surface, he seemed cheerful, but something or someone had hurt Brandon Holloway. Laura hadn’t mentioned it, nor had Ma, but Dorothy was certain she was not mistaken.

  She crossed the narrow alley and checked the latch on the shed where Evelyn stored her extra supplies. Dorothy had suggested installing a lock to protect the contents, but Evelyn had insisted there was no need. She trusted Mesquite Springs’s residents. So did Ma, though she’d insisted Dorothy keep the doors to Polly’s Place and her apartment locked when she was there alone and had been adamant that Dorothy have a loaded rifle in the apartment. “You can never be too careful,” Ma had declared.

  Dorothy rolled her eyes as she emerged from the alley. Ma was full of pronouncements. When she’d returned to Polly’s Place after spending the afternoon with Ida Downey, Ma had raved about Brandon, saying she understood why Laura was infatuated with him. And then she’d shocked Dorothy.

  “Brandon’s a good man, Dorothy. He’d make you a fine husband,” she had said as calmly as if she were discussing the hair ribbons Ida had on display.

  It was ridiculous. Dorothy wasn’t looking for a husband, and even if she were, she wouldn’t consider the man her dearest friend wanted to marry. So, why was she walking toward Spring Street, fully intending to turn left when she reached it rather than heading toward the spring?

  Curiosity, that’s all it was. After all, she had never seen a newspaper office. And maybe, just maybe, there was a place for her there.

  Brandon grinned as he stepped onto the front porch. All he’d wanted was a breath of air. He hadn’t expected to see her, but the sight of her made him grin. There was no mistaking her walk. While other women minced, she moved with determination. It was still a feminine gait, but more . . . He paused for a second, searching for the correct word. Intriguing. That was it. Her gait was more intriguing than most women’s.

  His grin widened. Intriguing was a good adjective to describe not simply Dorothy Clark’s walk but everything about her. Unlike her friend Laura, who fluttered her eyelashes and seemed to believe that scintillating conversation centered on the number of meals she had cooked, Dorothy challenged him.

  She’d overheard Brandon telling a rancher that he didn’t believe editors should voice their opinions in a paper, and she’d disagreed, claiming it was one of the responsibilities a man assumed when he started a paper. She’d looked directly at him and declared that while people might not listen to Brandon Holloway, the man, they would consider carefully what Brandon Holloway, the editor, had written. She was wrong, of course, but her arguments had been clear, concise, and compelling.

  Dorothy appeared to relish challenging people. Look at the way she’d convinced him to try a piece of raisin pie, even though Brandon had told her he didn’t like raisins. She’d insisted that Evelyn’s recipe would make him change his mind, and she’d been right. It was delicious.

  Brandon’s pulse accelerated at the sight of her walking by his home, and he wondered whether it was coincidence or whether she’d come to challenge him about something. There was only one way to know. He stepped off the porch and approached her.

  “Mind if I join you?” He considered inviting Dorothy inside to see the office, but it was such a beautiful late afternoon that the idea of strolling with her seemed more attractive.

  When she nodded, he crooked his arm and waited until she placed her hand on it before he asked, “Did you come to place an ad in the Record?”

  The way she lifted one eyebrow made him realize that his question was more than a little abrupt. When would he learn to hold his tongue? But her response indicated she’d taken no offense. “Is that what you decided to name it?”

  “That sounds as if you disapprove.” Brandon told himself he shouldn’t care. After all, it was his newspaper, not hers. But the sinking feeling deep inside him gave lie to his brave words. He did care.

  As she shook her head, he thought he saw a look of chagrin cross her face. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove, but . . .”

  “You can be honest with me,” he said when she did not finish her sentence. “My feelings aren’t that fragile.” Or at least they hadn’t been when others voiced their opinions. Somehow, Dorothy Clark’s approval mattered.

  “It’s simply that . . . well . . .”

  Brandon could hardly believe this was the same Dorothy who was so assured at the restaurant. He’d never seen her dither there.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he said as they proceeded east on Spring. “I value your opinion.”

  The way she appeared both surprised and pleased by his statement made him wonder if she was unaccustomed to having others listen to her. Surely not.

  “Well, then.” Dorothy paused for a second, as if still unsure, before speaking quickly. “It’s only my opinion, but ‘record’ sounds stodgy to me. You’re not stodgy, so why should your paper be?”

  The spark of satisfaction that speared through him shocked Brandon with its intensity. He’d expected her to challenge him, and she had proven him right. But more satisfying than that was the rush of pleasure from the realization that she did not consider him stodgy.

  “You may be right,” he told her. “My last paper was called the Record and, while I wouldn’t call it stodgy, a complete change is probably a good idea.” Particularly after the way that venture had ended. “What would you suggest?”

  “What about the Chronicle?”

  He was silent for a moment while he considered Dorothy’s recommendation. “The Mesquite Springs Chronicle. I like it.” The name had a nice ring to it and, just as importantly, it carried no reminders of Xavier. “The Chronicle it is.” Brandon gave her a quick smile. “Now that you’ve christened it, will you buy an ad, or better yet, agree to place an ad in each issue? I offer a reduced price for that.”

  As they passed the boardinghouse, he saw two men sitting on the front porch, smoking cheroots and seeming to enjoy each other’s company, though they weren’t engaged in a conversation. One was the single older man, the other Phil Blakeslee. They both waved, then returned to their silent companionship.

  “I can’t commit long term,” Dorothy said in response to Brandon’s question about putting ads in the newly named Chronicle. “Evelyn will have to make that decision when she returns, but I’ll certainly place an ad in each issue until then.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.” Brandon suspected that his confusion was reflected in both his expression and his voice. “Evelyn’s your brother’s wife. Right?”

  Dorothy nodded. “She’s also the owner of Polly’s Place.”

  “Oh. Now you have surprised me. I thought you were the proprietor.” She’d certainly acted as if she were in charge of the restaurant.

  “I’m just filling in until Evelyn and Wyatt return from their honeymoon.”

  Brandon wasn’t certain whether he heard relief or uncertainty. He hoped he wasn’t prying, but curiosity compelled him to speak. “What will you do then?”

  “I’m not sure.” And this time there was no doubt. Dorothy Clark was unhappy about that.

  “Who’s the gal with the newspaperman?”

  Esther would have scolded him for saying “gal,” telling him no educated man would use that word, but if there was one thing Phil had learned in the years since his sister’s death, it was the importance of fitting in. John, the single man who rarely spoke at meals, would be far more likely to respond if Phil asked about a gal rather than calling her a lady.

  “That there’s Dorothy Clark.”

  “Any kin to the mayor?” As far as Phil knew, there was only one family named Clark in the area. When he’d been here on his reconnaissance trip, he’d learned that Wyatt Clark had turned over much of the daily running of his horse farm to the blacksmith’s son and was
now the town’s mayor.

  “Sister.” John would never use two words when one would suffice.

  “What do you suppose she’s doin’ in town?” More importantly, what was she doing with Holloway?

  “Runs the restaurant now that Evelyn’s away.” John was becoming downright talkative, offering an almost complete sentence.

  “Polly’s Place?”

  “Yep.”

  They were back to one-word responses, but Phil didn’t care. He had the information he needed. Tomorrow he’d visit Polly’s Place and make the acquaintance of Miss Dorothy Clark.

  Though he’d given her an opening, Dorothy realized it was too early, not to mention totally unseemly, to suggest that she might write for the Chronicle. She had already been more forward than most women when she’d advised Brandon to reconsider the paper’s name. Fortunately, he hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact, he’d seemed pleased, but she wouldn’t presume on his good nature again today.

  What she needed to do was make him forget that she had aroused his curiosity. Since a man who made his living ferreting out stories wouldn’t be satisfied with a superficial answer, her best recourse was to change the subject.

  “Have you decided on your subscription and ad rates?” Dorothy hoped that her little laugh didn’t sound as forced as it felt. “I should have asked about them before I so rashly committed some of Evelyn’s profits.”

  “Ads will be a dollar for the first one, then fifty cents each time they’re repeated.”

  Brandon didn’t seem to mind that she hadn’t continued the discussion, and that helped Dorothy relax. She did some quick mental arithmetic. “So, a year’s worth of ads would be $26.50.” That sounded a bit high to her, but her only experience with paying for space in newspapers had been the notice Wyatt had placed to alert readers to his first home horse sale.

  Though she hadn’t meant to sound critical, Brandon appeared to be considering his prices. “If someone’s willing to commit to a whole year, I’d only charge $20. What do you think?”