Dreams Rekindled Page 5

  “I wish I could take credit for that,” he admitted, “but it was Dorothy’s idea.” An even better idea than the name she’d suggested for the paper itself. People had begun to seek Brandon out to tell him how pleased they were that the Chronicle would feature more than state or national news. If this continued, his goal of making the paper a unifying force for the town would become reality.

  “Dorothy’s a fine young woman, and she’ll make someone a fine wife,” Mrs. Coleman said. “I don’t know why she’s not married yet. Maybe—”

  “Now, Helga, I’m sure Mr. Holloway doesn’t need your matchmaking. He’ll find the woman God intended for him in his own time.”

  If, that is, God intended Brandon to marry.

  “Let’s talk about other things,” Pastor Coleman suggested. “What brought you here?”

  That was a slightly better subject. “Ironically, perhaps, it was an article in a paper. The picture it painted made Mesquite Springs sound like a place where I’d like to live.”

  “That wasn’t irony or coincidence. It was the hand of God.” Pastor Coleman’s voice resonated with the same certainty Brandon had heard in today’s sermon. “We had a need. You had a need. He brought us together.”

  Brandon had certainly had a need—a need to escape the shambles he’d made of his life, a need to start anew, a need to prove that he’d learned from his mistakes—but he wouldn’t share those needs with the Colemans.

  “Mr. Holloway doesn’t need a second sermon, Jonathan. Let him enjoy his meal.” Mrs. Coleman gestured toward the platter of crisply fried chicken. “Would you like another piece?”

  “Yes, I would. It’s delicious, but please call me Brandon. Mr. Holloway was my father.”

  Mrs. Coleman nodded and pushed the bowl of potatoes toward him once he’d taken a drumstick. “You said ‘was.’ Is your father no longer on this earth?”

  If someone else had asked, Brandon might have considered it prying, but this woman’s interest seemed maternal, not meddling, and so he did not hesitate to reply.

  “No, ma’am. He died two months ago.” What he wouldn’t say was that the pain was still almost as sharp as it had been that awful night. If only . . . Surely those were the saddest words in the English language. Brandon clamped his lips together, trying to control the guilt that assailed him every time he thought of that night.

  “Jesus wept.” This time Pastor Coleman spoke softly. “The Bible doesn’t say it in these words, but I believe Jesus shares our sorrow. He weeps with us at the same time that he rejoices as another soul joins him in heaven. Helga will tell me this is not the time for a sermon or counselling, and she’s right.” The minister’s lips curved into a wry smile. “When you’re married, you’ll learn what I have—your wife is almost always right. Remember, Brandon, if you ever want to talk, my door is always open.”

  “Thank you.” But Brandon wasn’t ready to tell anyone what he’d done . . . and what he hadn’t done.

  Only another mile to the ranch. Dorothy blinked in astonishment as she realized that she hadn’t referred to the Circle C as home. Though she hadn’t expected it, in less than two weeks, the apartment over Polly’s Place had become her home. She reveled in the solitude, in the independence, in the knowledge that she could go anywhere she wanted without telling anyone.

  It wasn’t a matter of asking for permission. Ma wouldn’t have stopped her from spending her evenings interviewing people and writing their reminiscences of early Christmases in Mesquite Springs, but Dorothy relished knowing that she didn’t have to account for her free time.

  Even more than that, she found herself exhilarated as she turned her notes into full sentences. The seemingly simple act of choosing the right word filled her with so much excitement that her heart would pound as if she’d raced up a hill, and when she reached the end of the article, she could hardly stop herself from rising from the chair and dancing a pirouette. Nothing she’d done before had felt so fulfilling.

  When she reached the ranch, she slid down from Guinevere and looped the mare’s reins over the hitching post. Wyatt might chide her for not turning the horse loose, but Wyatt wasn’t here, and Dorothy wanted to see her mother. Ma had seemed distracted when she’d left the church, and while nothing about her distraction reminded Dorothy of the horrible year after Pa had been killed, she couldn’t help worrying about her.

  As she entered the kitchen, Dorothy stopped in midstride. Ma was wearing her Sunday apron. There was nothing unusual about that. She was stirring gravy. Nothing unusual about that, either. But she was humming as she stirred the gravy, and that was unusual. Ma never hummed.

  “The roast smells delicious.” Dorothy wouldn’t comment on the humming, any more than she would mention the apparent distraction she’d seen in the churchyard.

  Ma smiled as she inclined her head toward the pan of potatoes. “If you mash them, we’ll be ready to eat.” And then she began to hum again.

  Glancing into the dining room as she reached for the potato masher, Dorothy blinked in surprise. Instead of the everyday dishes she’d expected, the table was set with what had been her grandmother’s china, prized dishes that Ma had brought from Germany.

  “Is today a special occasion?”

  “No.” Ma poured the gravy into the fancy gravy boat they normally used only on Christmas and Easter. “Something Ida said made me realize there was no reason to let the china sit around and collect dust. We ought to enjoy what we have while we can.” She bent to pull the roast from the oven, hiding her face from Dorothy’s scrutiny. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

  Distraction, humming, the china, now this. Fear assailed Dorothy as she considered the possibility that her mother was ill. “Are you feeling all right?” It might be nothing more than the realization that time was passing, but Dorothy couldn’t dismiss the thought that something else was responsible for her mother’s unexpected behavior.

  “Of course, I am.” The annoyance that colored Ma’s response reassured Dorothy even more than her words. This was the mother she knew.

  “Now, let’s get the food on the table.” Though it would have been easier to serve themselves here in the kitchen, Ma had always insisted that Sunday dinner be served family style, with everything in bowls and on platters even when there were no guests.

  The meal was one of the best Dorothy could remember. Perhaps Ma was right in bringing out her china. Perhaps using pretty dishes made the food taste better. Or perhaps it was Ma’s mood. She seemed almost playful today, and that was not an adjective Dorothy would have applied to her mother. If this was the result of something Laura’s mother had said, she wanted to know what had caused such a transformation.

  “What did Mrs. Downey say that made you think about the fancy china?” Dorothy had waited through most of the meal to ask, but she could wait no longer.

  “Ida told me you’re asking folks about their first Christmases here.”

  Dorothy could hardly believe that her plans for the first Sociable column had affected her mother this way. To her relief, Ma didn’t seem annoyed that she’d heard the news from her friend rather than directly from Dorothy.

  “I am. I was hoping you’d have a story to tell.” She’d planned to ask this afternoon, though she hadn’t been certain of the reception she’d receive. Ma rarely spoke of her husband, and Dorothy had feared that talking about the early years of their marriage might cause a setback. Those times when Ma retreated into some dark corner of her mind frightened Dorothy, because she never knew how long they’d last, and with Wyatt gone, she would have to deal with Ma’s moods alone.

  But there was no sign of that today. Ma was silent for a moment, stirring sugar into her coffee and staring at the cup as if it held the answers. Then she smiled. “It’s a story I probably should have told you long before this. The first Christmas we were here, I was expecting Wyatt and was sicker than I’d ever been.”

  She took a sip of coffee, her smile growing rueful as she continued. “It wasn’t o
nly in the morning. The sickness lasted through most of the day. I couldn’t cook, because the smell of food made me ill. Poor Wilson was at his wits’ end.”

  Though Dorothy assumed that Pa had wondered how long he’d go hungry, since as far as she could recall, he was unable to cook a meal, Ma’s next words dispelled that idea.

  “He knew that I wanted our first Christmas together to be special. I’d told him how my family celebrated and how I wanted to cook a traditional German Christmas feast for him.”

  “But you couldn’t.”

  “No, I couldn’t, and your father couldn’t either. Like most men, he had no idea what to do in a kitchen other than eat.”

  To Dorothy’s relief, the reminder seemed to bring Ma pleasure, not distress. “So, what did you do?”

  “It’s what he did. He talked to every German woman in town, and each one agreed to give him a bit of her Christmas dinner. One gave us part of a goose with apple and sausage stuffing. Another made potato dumplings and red cabbage. Still another made a Christmas stollen for us. It was a true community effort.”

  Dorothy had no trouble imagining the townspeople helping Pa give Ma the meal she longed for. But, after what Ma had said, she had trouble envisioning her enjoying it. “How did you manage to eat it? I thought you couldn’t bear the smell of food.”

  “I couldn’t. That’s why your father gave me the perfect Christmas present.” Her smile widened as she recalled that long-ago day. “He carved it himself, then painted one side red, the other green. I don’t think I’d ever seen him as proud as he was when I opened the package.”

  “What was it?” Dorothy had no idea.

  Ma’s smile turned into a chuckle. “A clothespin. Wilson explained that if I put it on my nose, I’d probably be able to eat, and he was right. It was a Christmas I’ll never forget.”

  Dorothy laughed along with her mother and gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving for this day and the memories Ma had shared. “What a beautiful story!” None of the others could compare to this one. “I’m going to call it The Gift of Love.”

  And what a gift it had been! Pa had given Ma a clothespin and a close-to-perfect Christmas, and in recounting the story, Ma had given Dorothy a new perspective on her parents’ marriage. For over a decade, she’d seen only the aftermath of Pa’s murder and how it had affected Ma. Now she had a glimpse into the love they’d shared and the happiness that love had brought them. All because of the Sociable.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  Are you sure you won’t stay for supper, Mr. Blakeslee?”

  Phil smiled and shook his head. He’d spent enough time here today, sketching the area next to the river. There’d been more trees than he’d expected, and while the artist in him admired the brilliant fall foliage reflecting in the water, until he heard back from Mr. K, he would not know whether the trees were a problem or an asset.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bosch. I sure do appreciate the offer, but I reckon I better get back to town.” He gestured toward the open area around the farmhouse. “This sure is pretty.”

  The rancher’s wife, who was still looking at him as if she were certain a strong wind would knock him over, nodded. “Ed and me like it. I cain’t imagine living any place else.”

  But they would. If everything went as planned, the Bosches, Sattlers, and Links would all have new homes by next summer.

  “I sure do appreciate you lettin’ me draw your land. It’s a mighty fine place.” He turned his sketchbook so she could see the drawing he’d made of the land. When she nodded again, apparently approving the likeness he’d created, Phil pulled a sheet from the book. “This one’s for you.”

  Her eyes lit when she saw the quick sketch he’d made of the modest building she called home. “That’s mighty fine, Mr. Blakeslee. Mighty fine. Yer a kind man.”

  But he wasn’t. Phil was a practical man, and soon he’d be a rich one, as long as no one interfered.

  As difficult as it was to wait, Phil knew Mr. K was right. There was no reason to ride all the way to Grassey more than once a week. He’d wait until Wednesday to send the sketches, and then—if he was lucky—there’d be a response from Brother Josiah.

  Two days. He could wait that long.

  Dorothy paused as she approached the door. Should she knock or simply walk inside? She’d never visited a newspaper office before and was uncertain of the proper etiquette. Finally, reasoning that it was a business like Polly’s Place or the mercantile, she opened the door and found herself in a hallway that ran the length of the building.

  To her right was what appeared to be the office, a room furnished with a large desk, two chairs for visitors, and a bookcase only half filled with books. Though the room to the left was dominated by the printing press, stacks of paper filled one side, while a table covered with shallow boxes and a large bottle of ink stood against the inside wall. All that was missing was the Chronicle’s editor. It was late afternoon, the time he’d said he was normally in the office.

  “Brandon?”

  He emerged from the back of the house, a mug of coffee in his hand. “It’s going to be a long night,” he explained. “Would you like some?” When Dorothy shook her head, Brandon ushered her into the office and gestured toward a chair. “I’m hoping those papers are your notes.”

  They were more than notes, but Dorothy wouldn’t say that. She planned to leave the pages and let him discover that she’d drafted the articles. As much as she wanted to see his reaction, she couldn’t suppress the fear that Brandon might hate them. It would be less embarrassing for both of them if he was alone when he read them.

  “I’ll have more for you on Friday, but I thought you might want to get started with these.” To her relief, her voice did not reveal how important these articles were to her. She didn’t want Brandon—or anyone—to know how many of her dreams were wrapped up in those pages. They weren’t life-changing like Mrs. Stowe’s book, but they were Dorothy’s second attempt to discover whether she was a writer, a real writer.

  “I should have a chance to read them tomorrow morning.” Brandon laid the papers on the desk. “Would you like to meet George?”

  “George?” The question startled Dorothy. Brandon had been in Mesquite Springs for a week, and this was the first time she’d heard him mention George.

  He chuckled as if he’d expected her confusion. “That’s what I call my press. It’s a Washington handpress, so George seemed like an appropriate name.”

  “It is.” Dorothy liked this lighter side of Brandon. He was the only grown man she knew who’d give one of his tools a name. “And, yes, I’d like to meet him.” She grinned as she stressed the final word.

  Brandon pointed across the hall. “George is in there.”

  “I was surprised when I peeked at it,” Dorothy said as they entered the pressroom. “It’s smaller than I’d expected.”

  “He.” Brandon winked as he pronounced the word. “George is big enough to do everything I need him to do and small enough that he’s relatively easy to transport. That’s one of the advantages of this particular model.”

  The way Brandon ran his hand over the curved top of the frame told Dorothy more clearly than words how much satisfaction he found in producing a paper. Did he know how fortunate he was to be doing something he so obviously loved?

  “I’ve heard some editors set up shop in a tent or even under a tree in the open air.”

  That sounded like a tall tale to Dorothy. “I suspect those stories exaggerate. I can’t imagine someone printing a newspaper in a field.”

  “Maybe not,” Brandon agreed, “but it would be feasible to set type for stationery and print that there. For some editors, personal printing is more lucrative than their newspapers.”

  “We’ve never had a printer in Mesquite Springs, so I can’t say how much business you’d get, but I certainly wish you’d been here last spring. My brother could have hired you to print posters when he ran for mayor.” That would have been easier than handwriting them t
he way she and Evelyn had.

  Dorothy continued to study George. The press was clearly sturdy enough to be used outdoors. Made primarily of iron, its frame reminded her of an upside-down U attached to two surprisingly graceful legs, each shaped like an inverted V. The four feet supported the majority of the press’s weight, while a simple metal post held up the two rails that protruded from the press itself.

  “How does it . . . er . . . he work?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Brandon gripped the handle of the large metal lever that attached the printing mechanism to the frame. With one easy motion, he raised the heavy square cover, revealing a smooth surface. “This is the platen,” he said, pointing to the top portion of the press. “It holds the paper. Once the type is set, I place it on the bottom, and then the hard work of printing each page begins.”

  “Hard, maybe, but it must be rewarding to see your words in print.” Dorothy knew she’d never forget the thrill she’d felt when Wyatt had shown her a paper with her article about his horse sale.

  “It is. Now, let me show you the type.” Brandon led the way to the table and gestured toward the shallow wooden boxes. “I use different fonts for the advertisements than for the stories themselves, and, as you can see, there are two boxes for each—one for uppercase letters, the other lower.”

  “Do you like setting type?”

  “I do,” Brandon admitted. “It sometimes seems like mechanical work, but I like the challenge of balancing the content of each column, hoping that readers will find both the appearance and the content pleasing. It’s all part of telling the news.”

  She picked up two pieces of type, wondering how difficult it would be to arrange them in what he’d told her was called the composing stick. “How did you know you wanted to be a newspaperman?” she asked. “Is that what your father did?”

  It must have been her imagination that Brandon flinched at the question, because his voice was even as he said, “Pa was a cobbler. He made the best shoes and boots in the whole county. I suspect he wished I’d follow in his shoes—bad pun—but from the first time I read a newspaper, I knew that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to tell the news and encourage people to think about what they read.”