Truth Be Told Page 7

  The buggy wheel dipped down into a rut in the road and bounced back out again. Amelia held her breath, but the substitute cotter pin held fast. The slight pitch of the buggy jostled Ben to one side, and their shoulders brushed. Amelia drew in a quick breath and slid as far to the right of the seat as she could.

  “I’m sorry your journey was interrupted,” Ben said. “What brought you out this way?”

  Amelia flicked a glance at him, then looked away. “I wanted to check into something, but I guess I’ll have to do that another time.” She slid her right hand from her lap and clutched the edge of the seat to steady herself against the swaying motion of the buggy.

  Ben held the reins in a sure grip and kept his eyes on the road ahead. “I admire you for taking on the newspaper. That’s quite a venture for anyone—especially a woman alone. But you seem to be up to the challenge.”

  Amelia eyed him narrowly, trying to decide whether his tone held sincerity or sarcasm. To her surprise, she saw only honest admiration in his gaze.

  “Your employer doesn’t seem to share your opinion. He offered to buy the Gazette before I had a chance to run it into the ground.”

  He whipped his head around to face her fully. “He did? When?”

  “The day of my father’s funeral. Just after they lowered his casket into the ground.” Speaking the words aloud brought back the bitter memory of that unhealed wound.

  Ben’s eyes shadowed, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sure the offer was made in good faith, but his timing was deplorable.”

  So even Owen Merrick’s own employee recognized how rude and thoughtless his actions had been. Amelia allowed herself to relax enough to let her shoulder blades touch the back of the padded seat while the buggy rolled along. After the tension of the past few weeks, it felt good to allow someone else to take over and relieve her of even this small responsibility.

  The breeze stirred the curls at her temples, soothing her even more. Under different circumstances, an evening buggy ride with the soft, pastel hues of approaching sunset threading their way across the sky and a handsome man beside her would have been heavenly. But this man worked for Great Western.

  Watch yourself, Amelia. Much as she’d been enjoying Benjamin Stone’s company, she didn’t dare let down her guard completely. Just because he had helped her in her recent plight, it didn’t mean his motives were pure. She pulled herself erect, and they rode the rest of the distance to town in silence.

  When they pulled up in front of the livery, Carl Olsen hurried out to greet them. He slid to a stop, and his mouth dropped open when he spotted Ben driving the buggy and his horse tied behind. Recovering quickly, he turned his attention back to Amelia. “So, you went out for an evening drive . . . ?”

  Amelia felt her face flame. Up to now, she was just grateful to have made it back to town safely. Until she saw the goggle-eyed look on Mr. Olsen’s face, she hadn’t considered what other people’s reactions might be at seeing her in Ben’s company. She forced herself to answer calmly. “I had a bit of a mishap with the buggy wheel, and Mr. Stone was kind enough to rescue me.”

  Ben stepped to the ground nonchalantly, as if coming to the aid of damsels in distress was something he did every day of the week. As he walked around the back of the buggy, he patted the right wheel. “‘A bit of a mishap’ may be an understatement. This wheel came off while Miss Wagner was driving. It’s a good thing she wasn’t seriously hurt.”

  While the livery owner bent to examine the damaged wheel, Ben moved forward to help Amelia down. Her mouth went dry when his strong hands spanned her waist, and her breath left her lungs in a whoosh. Seemingly unaware of her response to his touch, he walked over to explain about the cotter pin and point out his improvised solution.

  Mr. Olsen placed both hands on the wheel and wiggled it back and forth. He examined the makeshift cotter pin, and his face reddened. “I don’t know how I could have missed that the pin was damaged.” He straightened and faced Amelia. “I’m sure glad you weren’t hurt. I’ll go over every bit of this buggy and make sure it’s in top shape before you take it out again.”

  “Thank you,” said Amelia. “I wouldn’t want to put my guardian angel to the test too often.”

  “It will be dark soon,” Ben said. “May I escort you home?”

  Amelia frowned. “What about your horse?”

  “He’ll be fine. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”

  She didn’t really need an escort now that she was back in town. But in the face of Carl Olsen’s curious gaze, she decided not to argue. It was obvious the livery owner had questions about her encounter with Ben. No point in giving him more reason to speculate.

  Ben smiled and offered his arm. Amelia hesitated, then she tucked her fingers in the crook of his elbow. Their heels thudded softly along the boardwalk until they reached the Gazette building, where a single light shone inside the printing office. Ben opened the door, and Amelia walked in first.

  Homer looked up from setting a column of type. “There you are. I wondered where you’d gotten off to.” His smile faded when Ben stepped in behind her.

  Removing his hat, he nodded to Homer, then turned to Amelia. “I’m glad we got you home safe and sound. I hope the rest of your evening goes better.” With that, he nodded again to Homer and took his leave.

  Homer strode across the floor while Amelia busied herself with the lock. His head swiveled back and forth, looking first at her, then out the front window. “Safe and sound? What was that all about?”

  Amelia sagged back against the door. “I wanted to check on something out at the old Sparks place, so I started out there in the buggy. But the wheel came off while I was passing the cedar thicket. If Mr. Stone hadn’t come along and helped me, I might still be stranded out there.”

  Homer’s eyes bulged, and he sputtered like a teakettle on the boil. “What were you thinking, taking off that late in the day?”

  “Emmett Kingston told me Papa bought that land. It’s the first I’d heard about it, so I thought I’d go out and take a look.” Amelia removed her hat and hung it on the coatrack near the door, hoping the move would keep Homer from seeing the flush that tinged her cheeks at the reminder of her foolishness. “It seemed a good idea at the time.” Smoothing her skirt with her hands, she turned back to face him. “But I’m fine. And Carl Olsen feels terrible about it. He couldn’t apologize enough for not having noticed it was damaged.”

  “Unless the problem was man-made.”

  She shot a sharp glance at him, startled at the frown that darkened his face. “What do you mean?”

  “What was young Stone doing out there? Seems to me it was awfully convenient that he happened to come along just when you needed help.”

  “I didn’t ask what he was doing there. You aren’t suggesting he had something to do with the cotter pin, are you?”

  Homer snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past any of that Great Western bunch. He may not be as bad as Merrick or some of the others, but you can’t lie down with dogs and not get up with fleas.”

  Amelia was too tired to argue. The keyed-up emotions that had sustained her throughout her adventure seeped away, leaving her empty and exhausted. “We can talk about that another time. I’m just glad he came along when he did.” She stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss on Homer’s lined cheek. “Lock the back door when you leave, will you? I’m turning in for the night.”

  Upstairs in her room, she went through the motions of getting ready to retire and tumbled into bed, letting out a blissful sigh as she stretched out on the sheets and her head sank into the pillow. Worn out as she was, her mind kept drifting back to her panic when the wheel sailed off, and the relief she felt at Ben’s timely rescue.

  Homer might have found the coincidence to be suspicious, but if Ben hadn’t come along, she would have had to deal with a most unpleasant—and possibly dangerous—situation on her own. She was grateful for his chivalrous assistance.

  Her eyelids drifted shut, only to fly open
again an instant later, remembering her earlier encounter with Ben Stone that afternoon. He’d extended his invitation to the poetry reading, and she had turned him down abruptly before walking off to leave him standing alone on the boardwalk.

  Amelia pushed herself up on her elbows and stared into the darkness. She had made no mention of leaving town, she was sure of it. Nor had she spoken of going to the livery.

  By the time he came upon the wrecked buggy, she was well hidden in the tangle of cedars, yet he’d immediately called her name and asked if she was all right. Her chest tightened, and she struggled to draw a breath.

  Ben had asked her what she was doing out on that lonely road . . . but he never explained his own reason for being there. What brought him out to the scene of the wreck?

  And if Ben had nothing to do with the accident, how could he have known whose buggy it was?

  Ben pulled the saddle from his horse. The leather creaked as he set it atop the saddle rack. After slipping a canvas feedbag filled with grain over the animal’s head, he took the currycomb from its hook on the wall. He ran it along the horse’s back with long, smooth strokes, while the sound of steady munching filled the quiet of the dim barn.

  “I hope you enjoy your dinner, boy. It’s too late for mine.” Mrs. Taylor, the proprietress of his boardinghouse on the outskirts of town, made it clear from the outset that the evening meal would be served punctually at six. If her boarders didn’t make it to the table on time, they would be responsible for getting their supper elsewhere. He had missed that deadline by a couple of hours.

  Removing the empty feedbag with a pang of envy, he led the horse to its stall and threw a forkful of fragrant hay into the enclosure. His stomach growled as he slid his hands into his pockets and strolled outside the barn. A few lights still gleamed from within the boardinghouse, but Ben didn’t feel ready to go inside just yet.

  Walking over to the split-rail fence that marked the edge of Mrs. Taylor’s property, he leaned against the top rail and tipped his head back to look up at the inky night sky. The clouds he’d seen earlier had disappeared, leaving the sky looking as though it had been swept clean to afford a perfect view of the stars overhead. From where he stood, he could pick out Orion, the Seven Sisters, and Cassiopeia in their stately march across the sky.

  He let out a long sigh, wishing his own path could be as sure as theirs. When he’d accepted the assignment to strike up an acquaintance with the Gazette’s new editor, the task had seemed simple enough. But he hadn’t anticipated the difficulties that might arise.

  When Amelia Wagner abruptly refused his invitation and sailed off down First Street without a backward glance, the rebuff had stung. What had he done to warrant that kind of reaction? From what he’d learned during their drive in the buggy, she held a fair amount of resentment about Owen Merrick’s offer to purchase the newspaper. Ben could see her point on that. The overture had been ill-timed, indeed. But I’m not Merrick.

  It was obvious Homer Crenshaw didn’t like him, either—or anyone who worked at Great Western. Maybe his attitude had influenced hers. But Ben hadn’t approached her on a business matter—which made her refusal seem all the more personal.

  When she told him she had things to attend to, he assumed she was on her way back to the newspaper, or perhaps to the café for an early dinner. Instead, she’d marched straight to the livery stable.

  That move had puzzled him, so he’d taken up a post in a nearby alleyway and waited. Fifteen minutes later, she reappeared, driving a dapple-gray gelding. With his curiosity thoroughly piqued, he ducked back into the alley and trotted along on a course parallel to hers, hurrying to keep the buggy in sight, and watched her turn onto the road that led southwest out of town.

  The only business along Jefferson Road was the sawmill, which had already closed for the day. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to think of any logical reason for an evening visit. But whatever her destination, that route was the only way she could take back to town.

  Sprinting back to his boardinghouse, he’d hurried to the barn and saddled his horse, then followed the same route she had taken. She had to return to town sometime. And if he just happened to be on that road when she drove back, it would give him the opportunity to strike up another conversation.

  When he’d rounded the curve and saw the buggy canted to one side at a crazy angle on the edge of the lonely road, a surge of panic had coursed through him, wondering if she’d been thrown out and injured . . . maybe even killed?

  He’d wanted to whoop with relief when she came straggling out of that dense stand of cedars—even more so when she seemed to welcome his presence. She hadn’t even raised an objection when he stated his intention to drive the buggy back to town.

  And he had to admire her presence of mind. She hadn’t flown into hysterics at being stranded, which would have been the first reaction of most women of his acquaintance. His admiration for her had only grown when she told him about her plan to unharness her horse and lead it back to town. Amelia Wagner was one determined woman—and one he was eager to know better. He didn’t need an assignment from his boss to convince him of that.

  He smiled, remembering the look of her glossy brown curls dancing around her heart-shaped face, and the way her wide blue eyes shone when he’d managed to repair the buggy wheel. Even though following his boss’s order was the initial reason for striking up an acquaintance, it was going to be very easy to spend time in Amelia Wagner’s company.

  Chapter 8

  Amelia could hear the rhythmic clank and squeal as Homer worked the treadle of the Peerless press. She stared down at her freshly-penned lines.

  We appreciate the support shown by the citizens of Granite Springs during this difficult time. Though under new management, your new editor wants to assure you the Gazette will continue its founder’s commitment to shine the light of truth on local happenings, with a view toward bettering our community.

  Had she captured the proper tone in her first editorial since taking over the paper? What about the length? The piece was concise and to the point, but there was so much more to say, so many things that she wanted to share with her readers.

  The sound of the press ceased, and Homer’s head appeared in the open office door. “Is your editorial ready to go? I just finished that new round of tally sheets for Harlan Griggs over at the Brass Rail, and I’d like to finish setting the front page while they dry.”

  “I’m almost finished. Just a minute more.”

  “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.’” Homer thrust his arm forward in dramatic fashion as he turned back to the printing office.

  Amelia wrinkled her nose, wondering if she detected a faint whiff of alcohol mingled with the smell of printer’s ink. Had Homer been tippling? She thought back to the line he’d just quoted from Shakespeare’s King Henry V and the wide swing of his arm that accompanied it and nibbled on her lower lip. It was nothing out of the ordinary for Homer to throw out a line of poetry, but his gestures always became more flamboyant when he’d been nipping at the bottle.

  A tendril of worry threaded its way up her spine. When her father first met Homer, he recognized the man’s redeeming qualities despite his bent for heavy drinking. He’d taken Homer under his wing, helped him sober up, and introduced him to the Lord when Amelia was a small child. From that point on, Homer turned his back on alcohol . . . for the most part. Amelia had several vivid memories of times when he slipped back into his old ways when under pressure.

  But they were both under pressure now. She pressed her lips together and tried to rein in her impatient thoughts. At the moment, her main objective was getting this week’s paper out. She could question him about his drinking later.

  She took a moment to scan the editorial once more, then picked up her pen and rolled it between her fingers. How should she sign the piece? Everyone in Granite Springs knew that Andrew James Wagner was no longer the proprietor of the Gazette, but this would be her first official declarati
on that she was now the one at the helm.

  She chewed her lip again while she turned over several possibilities in her mind. Then she smiled. Her father had always used his initials: A. J. Wagner. And her name was Amelia Jane.

  Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she scrawled A. J. Wagner across the bottom of the page with a flourish. It was a way of blending the old with the new, one more proof that the Gazette’s mission had not changed.

  Taking the paper to the printing office, she picked up a composing stick and carried the shallow metal tray to the type cabinet. “What’s left to set up for the front page?”

  “It’s nearly done.” Homer glanced at the written page in front of her and grimaced. “I was hoping that editorial would be longer. It would have given us an excuse to leave out that Mrs. Parmenter’s treacly excuse for a poem.”

  Amelia hid a smile. “It is a bit much, isn’t it?”

  “‘Golden orb and honey’d trills.’” Homer snorted. “The Gazette has a reputation as a respected newspaper. I don’t know why you agreed to print that tripe in the first place.”

  “The Gazette is also a voice of the community. And Hyacinth Parmenter’s voice is going to be telling all her friends to buy a copy of the paper that showcased her masterpiece. Think of it as a good business move.”

  “Once you let her start, you won’t be able to stop her. She’ll expect you to keep right on printing more every week.”

  “As a matter of fact”—Amelia reached under the counter and drew forth a sheet of paper—“she dropped this off yesterday so we’d have plenty of time to work it into the next issue.”

  Homer moved closer and bent to read the flowing script: “‘White, woolly clouds mass o’er the land, and skip along like gamboling lambs.’” His mouth dropped open. “Have mercy.”

  “She obviously has a love of verse.” Amelia gave him a teasing grin. “Maybe all she needs is a guiding hand. Someone who could explain to her the intricacies of true poetry. Maybe you should take her under your wing. . . . You could think of it as doing a service to the community.”