Truth Be Told Read online

  He scooted up higher on the bed, and Amelia hurried to arrange the pillows so he would be more comfortable. He gave her an appreciative smile. “Now that you’re here, you can take over most of the writing. If Homer only has to deal with the machinery, that will ease his burden considerably, especially since the Peerless has been a bit cranky lately.” A dry chuckle rattled in his chest. “It’s getting old and on its last legs—like me.”

  As Amelia opened her mouth to protest, Homer darted back into the room. “That was Martin Gilbreth. He wanted to talk about his next advertisement, and he said to tell you—” He broke off when the outer door opened again and footsteps sounded on the pine plank floor.

  He stepped toward the sickroom door and stiffened when he caught sight of their visitor. “It’s one of those fellows from Great Western. What can he want?” He walked back to the printing office, closing the door behind him this time.

  Amelia heard the murmur of voices when Homer greeted the new arrival. As she turned back to her father, Homer’s voice grew louder. She couldn’t make out the words through the closed door, but his agitation was evident.

  The sight of her father’s taut expression and the way his fingers picked at the bedcovers sent her hurrying out into the newspaper office, where she found Homer squaring off with a man she didn’t recognize. She laid her hand on Homer’s arm. “I’ll tend to this. Why don’t you go see if Papa needs anything?”

  Homer’s mouth worked as though he wanted to say more, but he settled for a dismissive shrug before stalking off toward the makeshift bedroom. “Nothing much to tend to,” he muttered. “He was just leaving.”

  Amelia turned to the stranger, a tall man a few years older than her own twenty-three years. He stared after Homer, turning his hat in his hands. Amelia took advantage of the moment to study him more closely. Wavy, russet hair topped off a pleasant face and an athletic build. To her mind, he didn’t appear threatening in the least, but Homer’s obvious dislike and her father’s reaction were enough to set warning bells clanging in her mind.

  She addressed him in a cool tone. “Was there something you needed?”

  He turned back to her, a puzzled look in his hazel eyes. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Wagner, please.”

  Amelia arched one eyebrow. “Are you a friend?”

  He shook his head. “My name is Benjamin Stone. I’m on business for my company.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “The Great Western Investment Company.”

  The note of pride in his voice only served to set Amelia’s teeth on edge. Was that name supposed to mean something to her? “Did you wish to place an advertisement in the Gazette?”

  “No.” His brow furrowed. “I wanted to talk to Mr. Wagner about some articles he’s written.”

  Amelia nodded briskly. “Thank you, Mr. Stone. I’ll be sure to let my father know you were here.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re his daughter? I didn’t realize—”

  “I’m afraid he isn’t well,” Amelia continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “He can’t see anyone right now, other than close friends.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He took a step back toward the outer door. “I’ll come back when he’s feeling better.”

  Amelia watched him leave, then pivoted and went back to her father’s room.

  “I’m sorry about that.” Homer eyed her with a sheepish expression. “I didn’t mean to let my temper get the best of me.”

  She pasted on a bright smile. “It’s all right. I was happy to take care of it.”

  Deep furrows formed a groove between her father’s nose and his downturned lips. “Don’t let it bother you, Homer. A visit from Great Western is enough to upset anyone.”

  Homer nodded his thanks. “I’ll go get supper started and do some more work on that piece about the two-headed calf that was born out at the Grinstead farm.”

  “Brood of vipers,” her father muttered when Homer had gone.

  “Who? The people at Great Western?” Amelia sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand in hers. “It’s a new company in town, isn’t it? I don’t remember hearing that name before. But we don’t need to talk about them if it’s going to upset you.”

  He shook his head. “Probably just as well. Might help get some of it out of my system. They’re unhappy about a couple of stories I’ve written about their intention to start hydraulic mining in the area.”

  Amelia tightened her grip on his hand. “That man said he wanted to talk to you about some articles.”

  Her father grunted. “They’ve asked me not to print any more like that, warning the people of the impact it will have. In fact, they want me to print a retraction.”

  “A retraction?” Amelia sprang to her feet. “Why would they ask for that, unless what you printed wasn’t true? And I know you too well for that.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Thank you, my dear. That’s why I chose John 8:32 for the Gazette’s motto.”

  “‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’” Amelia quoted from memory, her eyes misting when she thought of the words that had appeared on the Gazette’s masthead for as long as she could remember.

  Her father nodded. “That’s what we print, Amelia. It’s what I’ve always stood by, and what I hope this newspaper will always stand for.”

  “That’s what Clayton Sloan says he admires most about you—your dedication to print the truth, no matter the cost. It’s what sets you apart from many other newspaper publishers.”

  The tight lines of her father’s face softened into a smile. “How is Clay? He’s been a good friend, letting you help out at the Denver Journal from time to time.”

  “He’s doing well. So is the paper. In fact, he’s let me write several stories lately. Nothing earth-shaking, but at least I’m getting to put the lessons I learned from you into practice. I wouldn’t want to let my writing skills get rusty between my trips to Arizona.”

  A chuckle shook her father’s shoulders. “I can imagine how your mother must feel about you working for a newspaper—even on a casual basis. How is she, by the way?”

  Amelia flinched at the change of subject. “Mother is . . . doing well.” She tried to keep her tone neutral. From her father’s expression, she knew she had failed.

  “Still caught up in her social whirl?”

  She nodded, hating to see the glimmer of pain that crossed his face, a pain she knew was due to something more than illness.

  “Maybe I should have given in and gone back to Denver with her when she left, but I doubt it would have made any difference—except for seeing more of you, of course.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “She wanted a better life for you, and I can’t blame her for that. But her ideas of a ‘better life’ and mine couldn’t be further apart. I never could fit in with that snobbish social set of hers . . . not that I ever tried very hard.”

  His breath came out in a long sigh. “I expect she’s happier back in her old circle of friends, with her parents’ money to keep her in the style she was accustomed to before she married me.”

  Amelia nodded again, wishing she could say something to take away the hurt in his voice. But he had only spoken the truth. Instead of encouraging her mother to return to her husband when she turned her back on their marriage ten years before, Amelia’s grandparents had welcomed her back to Denver with open arms and no recriminations. They had not, however, encouraged divorce, so though living apart, her parents were still man and wife. She wondered—not for the first time—how she could be so closely related to her mother’s side of the family and yet share so few of their interests.

  She pressed her lips together, holding back the words she longed to say about her mother’s social life—and Thaddeus Grayson, who had spent the past few months flitting around her mother like a bee around a flower. She wasn’t sure which sickened her more, the sight of him acting that way with a married woman, or the fact that her mother—the married woman in question�
�didn’t make any effort to repulse his attentions.

  With her grandparents giving tacit approval to that troubling situation, she had hoped to discuss the matter with her father and seek his counsel. But looking at his gaunt form, she couldn’t bring herself to do it now. She would have to wait until his health improved.

  Her father hitched himself a little higher up against the pillows. “What are your plans when you return to Denver? Any young men I should know about?” His attempt at a smile didn’t quite come off.

  “No, there isn’t anyone.” Though not for lack of trying on Mother’s part. Amelia leaned forward and stroked his head. “But let’s not talk about me going home. I just got here, after all. And I’m not leaving until you’re much better. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

  Homer stepped into the room, wiping his hands on an ink-stained rag. “Doc Harwood is here.”

  Amelia felt her spirits lighten for the first time since setting foot in her father’s sickroom. Finally, someone she could press for answers about his condition!

  She rose and patted his hand. “I’ll step out and give you some privacy.” She nodded a greeting to the doctor, a tall, gray-haired man, who moved aside so she could exit before he closed the door.

  Seeing that Homer’s attention was occupied in setting type for the Gazette’s upcoming issue, Amelia busied herself straightening loose papers and neatening some of the clutter that typically littered the printing office. From time to time, she darted a glance at her father’s door, but it remained stubbornly closed.

  She looked around, needing something productive to do. Her eyes lit on the door to her father’s office, and she hurried to his desk. Pulling out a fresh sheet of paper, she reached for pen and ink and started jotting notes about the foreclosure she overheard the two women talking about at the station.

  She had been scribbling only a few minutes when she heard the sickroom door open, and Dr. Harwood stepped out. Amelia scurried from the office to intercept him.

  “I have some questions for you,” she began.

  “Why don’t we talk in the office.” Without waiting for a response, he strode into the room she’d just vacated and waited for her to join him. He folded his arms and measured her with a long look. “I don’t know how much your father has told you about his condition.”

  “He mentioned not feeling well several times in his most recent letters, but I didn’t realize he’d gotten as sick as this.”

  The doctor nodded. “I thought that might be the case.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” she demanded. “How long will it take him to recover?”

  The doctor’s somber expression made her heart constrict, and her voice rose half an octave. “He is going to get better, isn’t he?”

  Dr. Harwood reached out to lay one hand on her shoulder. “Your father has a malignant cancer. I’m afraid it’s well advanced by now. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s still with us. I think he’s been hanging on, just waiting to see you again. Now that you’re here—”

  “What?” A clutch of dread seized Amelia’s throat, and she fought to squeeze the words out. “You’re not telling me . . .”

  The doctor’s gaze softened, and he tightened his grip on her shoulder. “I know this is hard for you to hear, but he’s just hanging on by a thread. I’ll be surprised if he lasts the week.”

  Amelia balled her hands into tight fists beneath her chin, trying to grasp the enormity of the doctor’s statement. A sob tore from her throat. “But it’s too soon! I’m not ready . . .” Her voice trailed off as she recognized the truth reflected in the doctor’s solemn gaze and realized the futility of her words. Ready or not, her emotions wouldn’t change the situation. Concern for her father—not for her own feelings—had to take precedence.

  Lowering her hands to her sides, she squared her shoulders and tried to steady her voice. “What can I do for him? How can I help make him comfortable?”

  A brief smile of approval flitted across the doctor’s lips. “Homer has some medicine I left that helps ease the pain. He’s been doing a fine job of staying on top of things. My advice would be to let him run the paper, and for you to spend as much time with your father as you can. That’s the best medicine you can offer him.”

  He patted her shoulder and withdrew his hand. “I’ve done all I can do for him, but I’ll check back from time to time to see how you’re both getting along. And if there’s anything you need, just send someone for me. I’ll come as quickly as I can.” With a final sympathetic look, he gave her a nod and left.

  It took several minutes before she could compose herself enough to walk back to the sickroom. Pushing the door open, she stepped inside, trying to conceal her anguish. She took her time settling herself on the ladder-back chair beside the bed, noting her father’s pallor and the waxy appearance of his skin. Despite his attempts to set her at ease, he was ill—desperately ill. Why hadn’t she recognized the signs before?

  The answer was simple enough. I didn’t see it because I didn’t want to.

  Her father’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “He told you?”

  She should have known he’d see right through her efforts to appear composed. Hadn’t he always been able to know what was really going on inside her? Her carefully erected air of calm began to crumble, and she gripped his hand in both her own. “He must be mistaken. He has to be! You can’t . . .” Her throat tightened, choking off her protest.

  He reached up to stroke her cheek with his free hand. “I’m sorry, honey. I wouldn’t have planned it this way, but it wasn’t left up to me. We have to talk about the future—what we’re going to do with the paper, what you’re going to do. At least you won’t be left completely on your own. You have a home to return to in Denver once this is over.”

  It isn’t a home I want to go back to! Amelia clamped her lower lip between her teeth to keep from saying the words aloud.

  “I’d like to keep the paper going as long as we can, so you can get the best price for it,” her father went on. “We could ask Clay Sloan to put some feelers out. He might know someone who would be interested.”

  He laid his palm against her cheek. “I won’t ask you to stay indefinitely, but do you think you and Homer could run the Gazette until it’s sold? I want some of the proceeds to go to Homer. He’s been a good helper and a great friend over the years. The rest will be yours.”

  A spasm crossed his face, and he pulled his hand away to press it against his side.

  Amelia started to her feet, but he shook his head and tugged at her hand. “Don’t let just anybody have it, though,” he continued in a noticeably weaker voice. “I want it to go to someone who cares about the truth as much as you and I do. Something isn’t right about Great Western, something even worse than their plans for hydraulic mining, as bad as that is. I need to know whoever is at the helm of the Gazette will bring the truth to light.”

  Amelia leaned forward and blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. “That’s enough for now, Papa. I don’t want you to wear yourself out.”

  “Honey, if I rest now, I may never get another chance to tell you.” He drew a shaky breath, and his eyelids fluttered. “But I’ll admit, I’m pretty tuckered. I wouldn’t mind a chance to close my eyes for a bit.”

  Amelia bent over to tuck the sheet around his shoulders and pressed her quivering lips against his forehead. “I love you, Papa. Always remember that.”

  “I love you, too, honey.” His lips moved again, and she bent lower to catch the faint words. “Look for me at the Eastern Gate.”

  Amelia knew she would always remember the next few days as some of the most precious in her life. Every brief scrap of conversation with her father, every tender touch, every loving glance that passed between them, would be emblazoned on her memory forever.

  True to his word, Dr. Harwood checked in several times. Pastor Edmonds was a frequent caller, as well, offering spiritual encouragement to them both and bolstering Amelia’s flagging spirits by his repeate
d assurances that she was doing everything humanly possible to bring comfort to her father’s final days.

  Friends stopped by to say farewell, while Homer put all his efforts into making sure the Gazette’s next issue went out on time. Though he looked worn to a frazzle, he insisted he could manage it alone, wanting to give Amelia and her father every possible minute together. Amelia suspected he spent his rare snippets of free time working on a tribute to her father to be printed whenever that day arrived, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask if her supposition was correct.

  She scarcely left the sickroom for more than a few moments, for fear she might not be there when her father needed her. When the end came, she sat quietly by his side, sandwiching his hand between hers. She watched his chest rise and fall, noting that each faint breath came slower than the one before. Finally she heard one last, gentle sigh . . . and he was gone.

  Chapter 3

  The funeral passed in a haze. With Homer beside her, Amelia sat on a hard pew at the front of the sanctuary of the Granite Springs Community Church. Her mind registered a number of mourners in attendance, though she took no note of individual faces. Pastor Edmonds stood behind the pulpit and spoke in a heartfelt tone, but not one word penetrated her consciousness. Her whole attention remained focused on the simple coffin in front of the minister.

  Her head cleared somewhat when the congregation reached the cemetery, and she took her place beside the waiting coffin and the open grave. She scanned the faces around her, recognizing several who had come to pay their last respects.

  Emmett Kingston, having closed the general store for the morning, stood beside Thomas Rafferty, the station agent. Both men’s eyes were red-rimmed, and they made surreptitious swipes at their noses with pocket handkerchiefs.

  Carl Olsen, owner of the livery stable, was there, along with Martin Gilbreth. On Martin’s left stood a tall, angular woman Amelia hadn’t seen before who kept one hand tucked into the crook of his elbow and patted his arm with the other.