Truth Be Told Page 8

  Homer glowered at her. “Not on your tintype, missy.”

  Amelia laughed, and then her face grew somber. While she fitted the small pieces of type into the composing stick, she asked, “Why didn’t Papa ever tell me about buying that property from Virgil Sparks?”

  Homer shrugged. “Maybe with more important things on his mind, he just didn’t get around to it. The main reason he bought that land was to help Virgil out. At first, he thought he might hold on to it for a couple of years and see if it would increase in value. When he found out Great Western was interested in it, he started looking at it like a game of checkers, where he was able to keep them from gobbling up everything in that area.”

  Amelia nodded. That would explain why her father wanted to keep control of the property. But it didn’t answer the question of why Great Western was so interested in that section.

  By the end of the afternoon, the week’s edition was folded, stacked, and ready to deliver. Amelia let out a sigh of relief and started to swipe her hand across her forehead to push back a tumble of curls, but she stopped when she realized how smudged her fingers were.

  Homer kicked a heap of paper scraps to one corner of the floor and picked up a rag to clean his hands. Maybe now was the time to ask him about the alcohol she thought she smelled earlier. She took a step forward and cleared her throat.

  Before she could speak, the front door burst open, and Jimmy Brandt arrived, right on cue. “Is the paper finished?”

  Amelia sighed and forced a smile. “Perfect timing, as always.” She helped Jimmy load his canvas bag and watched him and Homer set out on their delivery rounds. She would have to bring up the drinking another time . . . if she had been correct in her assessment. Homer hadn’t seemed impaired in the least, so maybe it hadn’t been alcohol she smelled.

  She wet a rag with coal oil and began cleaning the type. Just as she completed the task, a movement outside caught her eye, and she recognized Clara Gilbreth passing by. Hurrying over to the front window, Amelia tapped on the glass to catch the other woman’s attention and went outside to greet her.

  Clara looked at Amelia in surprise. “I thought you’d be hard at work getting the paper out.”

  “We just finished. Jimmy and Homer are out making deliveries, and I’m ready to take a breather as soon as I clean the ink off my hands. Would you like to walk to the café with me and help me celebrate with a cup of tea?”

  A grin creased Clara’s face. “If you’re willing to stop at Kingston’s store first. I need to pick up a packet of pins.”

  As they walked to the general store, Amelia spotted Jimmy darting from one house to another along the residential section of Jefferson Road. Once Clara finished her errand, they headed toward the café.

  “I heard a whisper around town.” Clara shot her a sidelong glance as they walked down First Street toward the café. “Something about you having trouble on the road out near the sawmill the other night. Or was it more like a fortuitous encounter?”

  Amelia sucked in her breath and tried to answer in a casual tone. “It was nothing, really. I was just taking a drive, and the buggy lost a wheel. Mr. Stone happened to come along just then, and he was nice enough to mend the wheel for me so I could get back to town.”

  “So it wasn’t a planned meeting, like some folks are saying?”

  Amelia’s eyes flared wide. “No, not at all.” She thought she had managed to convince Carl Olsen their meeting was accidental, but apparently he’d wasted no time in spreading his version of her mishap to eager ears. If Clara had heard the tale already, it was a sure thing everyone else in the Granite Springs community knew of it by now.

  Most likely with numerous embellishments.

  But what could she expect? She’d been raised in this town. She knew as well as anyone the loquacious livery owner served as a hub of information that rivaled the Gazette.

  A new thought popped into her head. Had Ben heard this version of their encounter? And if so, how did he feel about being the focus of local gossip? She cringed, trying to imagine his reaction.

  Clara waited to speak until they reached the café and ordered their tea. “I didn’t mean to stir things up. No one is trying to start a scandal, if that’s what you’re worried about. Everyone around here knows you’ve been through a rough patch, and the idea of you finding some happiness makes them happy, too.”

  The tea arrived just then, and Amelia busied herself stirring sugar into the steaming brew in the blue willow cup, giving herself time to ponder what her friend had said. Did being around Ben make her happy? They’d only spent a short time together, but the mere memory of him sitting beside her on the buggy seat set her heart beating at a faster rate. She tried to steer her thoughts away from Homer’s suspicions and the confusion they engendered.

  A change of subject seemed in order. “How are things going at the sawmill?”

  Clara took a brief sip of tea, then smiled as she set the cup down in the saucer. “Couldn’t be better. Martin got a new contract, and everything is buzzing like a bunch of bees around a hive.”

  She glanced down at the table, then looked back up at Amelia. “I don’t mean to pry, but something’s been puzzling me.”

  Amelia eyed her, wondering what was to come next. “Go ahead.”

  “Martin told me you’ve been living in Denver with your mother for quite a while. I’m wondering how that happened, with your pa being out here. I know it’s really none of my business, but like I told you, I tend to speak what’s on my mind.”

  Amelia added another spoonful of sugar to her tea and watched the spoon swirl the amber liquid around in the cup. “When my parents married, my mother thought she was getting someone who wanted to make a difference in the world. In her mind, that meant forging friendships with politicians and leaders of society. But Papa planned to make a difference in another way. We moved out here when I was quite small so he could start the Gazette and have a part in opening up a new section of the country.”

  “How did that set with your mother?”

  Amelia lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “She put up with it for a while, long enough to realize that unlike most newspaper editors, he wasn’t willing to be used to further the agenda of some political faction. He had a mission to make the truth known, and he wasn’t going to use his position as a stepping-stone to bigger and better things. When I was thirteen, she insisted we all return to Denver so I could have the opportunities for a cultured life, the kind she felt a young lady ought to welcome.”

  Clara studied her with a knowing expression. “Something tells me it didn’t work out exactly the way she planned, since Martin says you made it a point to come back here every summer. And now you’re staying on.”

  Amelia chose her words with care. “Denver has a lot to offer, although the things I enjoy about it aren’t the same things my mother takes pleasure in. She expected me to be thrilled with coming-out parties, balls, and the rest of the social whirl. Instead, I got involved with a ministry to the underprivileged through my church. That was far more fulfilling to me than any of my mother’s parties.

  “And then”—she smiled—“I got in touch with one of my father’s friends, an editor at one of the Denver newspapers. He knew I had worked alongside my father, so he let me come in and help out from time to time.”

  Clara’s faded blue eyes twinkled. “I’m guessing that didn’t set too well with your ma.”

  “You’d be right about that. But I love everything about the newspaper world. Papa always used to say he was born with printer’s ink in his veins. He must have passed that along to me.” She glanced out the window and watched a ranch hand driving a buckboard loaded with spools of barbed wire away from the depot. “I inherited his love for Granite Springs, too. Staying here was the right decision for me. This is where I belong.”

  Clara bobbed her head. “It’s good for a body to know where they belong. Lots of folks spend too many years trying to figure that out, and some of them never do get it right.
” She pushed her chair back from the table. “And fixing Martin’s dinner is what I ought to be doing right now. I’d best be moving along.”

  After paying for their tea, they started back in the direction of the paper. Amelia smiled when she noticed a number of people standing along the boardwalk, reading the Gazette. Several of them glanced up long enough to smile and nod, then went back to their reading. A thrill of pride rippled through her at the sight.

  They crossed to the other side of the street and passed the Great Western building. Amelia slowed a bit and peered through the plate-glass window, wondering if she might catch sight of Ben.

  Clara’s voice cut into her thoughts. “What are you planning to do with your evening?”

  Amelia pulled her attention away from the office building and turned back to her friend. “I have work to do in the newspaper office. Then I thought I might read for a while before I retire.”

  “That sounds like a grand idea. Nothing like curling up with a good book after a hard day’s work.”

  Amelia nodded, although her plan didn’t involve a book. This evening, she intended to go through her father’s files and read over his notes.

  Stepping down to cross the alley that ran between the offices of Black & Landry, Attorneys-at-Law, and the Gazette, Clara stopped dead in her tracks and stared over the top of Amelia’s head. “What on earth?”

  Amelia whirled around and gasped at the sight of a man sprawled facedown in the alleyway. Horror filled her when she recognized the wispy white hair.

  It was Homer.

  Chapter 9

  Amelia hiked up her skirt and raced down the alley. She skidded to a halt at Homer’s side and dropped down next to him, heedless of the loose gravel that dug into her knees.

  She pressed her fingers against his neck, praying she would find a pulse. A sob of relief tore from her throat when her fingertips detected the reassuring sign of life. Then she caught the unmistakable odor of alcohol, much stronger than before.

  No. Rocking back on her heels, she looked down the alley and retraced Homer’s route in her mind. His last stop in delivering the Gazette would have been Zeke Miller’s boardinghouse, which sat next door to the Brass Rail Saloon. It would seem Homer had stopped by one of the town’s watering holes for a libation on his way back to the newspaper.

  So I didn’t imagine it earlier. A shadow fell across Homer’s limp form, and Amelia looked up to see Clara standing over her.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, I’m afraid—”

  Before she could say more, Clara knelt beside her. At that moment, Homer stirred and let out a moan. Pungent fumes wafted up, enveloping the two women. “Ah.” Clara raised one eyebrow. “We’d best get him inside, then.”

  Amelia stared openmouthed, amazed at the way her friend was taking the situation in stride. She looked down at the unmoving man. “I suppose you’re right. But how?”

  Clara reached over and clapped Homer on the back. “Come on. You need to get up.”

  Homer’s eyes flickered open, then fluttered closed again.

  Clara grabbed his shoulder and gave it a good shake. “We can’t get you inside on our own. You need to help us.”

  With a groan, Homer scrambled to his hands and knees, then stumbled to his feet.

  Clara stepped up beside him. “If we each get under one arm, can you manage?” Without waiting for a reply, she gestured to Amelia.

  Amelia moved to Homer’s left side and drew his arm across her shoulder, gasping when her knees buckled under his weight.

  “Where does he live?” Clara’s strained voice gave evidence of Homer weighing her down, as well.

  “He has a little cabin out back, but I don’t think we can get him that far. Let’s take him through this rear door. It’s the one we use for deliveries.”

  Step by halting step, they staggered along the alley. Amelia shot a quick glance over her shoulder, hoping no one was there to witness their weaving progress. To a casual observer, it might look like all three of them had spent the afternoon at the Brass Rail.

  When they reached the alley door, she fumbled with the latch and kicked the door open with her foot. “In here.” She nodded toward the improvised sickroom her father so recently occupied. She and Homer had returned the shelves and most of the storage items to their places, but the bed still took up space against one wall.

  She and Clara maneuvered Homer over to it, then let him slip out of their grasp. He sprawled across the mattress and lay there, moaning.

  Amelia stared down at her old friend, compassion and anger warring within her. She should have spoken to him earlier, as soon as she caught that faint smell of alcohol on his breath.

  How would Papa deal with this? Homer had been a heavy drinker when her father took him under his wing, but he’d looked beyond the surface and recognized Homer’s value—not just as a help around the newspaper but as a human being worthy of God’s love and forgiveness . . . and thus, his own.

  His occasional lapses over the years hadn’t pleased her father, but he’d seemed to take them in his stride. She was not her father, though. How could she love somebody like a dear uncle on one hand, and at the same time want to shake him until his teeth rattled?

  She looked over at Clara, mortified that her friend had witnessed Homer’s backsliding. “Thank you for your help. I never could have gotten him inside on my own. I’m sorry you had to see him like this.”

  Clara brushed off the incident. “I had an uncle with the same problem. It isn’t the first time I’ve had to help someone home after he’s been on a bender. My uncle was a fine man, though, when he wasn’t bending his elbow too much.”

  She bent over Homer and frowned. “Looks like he whacked his forehead on the ground when he passed out.”

  Moving closer, Amelia could see the knot forming near Homer’s temple. “I’ll get a cloth and a basin of water.” She went to the kitchen to retrieve the supplies, along with some bandages. Annoyed as she was at Homer’s drinking, he still needed care.

  Carrying the items back to the storeroom, she set the basin on a nearby shelf and started dabbing at the wound. Homer flinched and tried to swat her hand away.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is going to hurt. You have quite a lump already. You must have struck your head when you passed out.”

  Homer looked up as if trying to focus on her face. “Didn’t pass out. Not on my own, anyway.” He planted his hands on the mattress and eased himself back up against the wall at the head of the bed. “I was walking down the alley, and something smacked me on the head.”

  He probed the discolored knot with his fingers. “This is tender, all right, but where it really hurts is up here.” He raised his hand, indicating the top of his head.

  Amelia set the rag on the edge of the basin and used her fingers to part his hair with a gentle touch. She sucked in her breath when she saw a line of blood along his scalp.

  Clara leaned close. “Must’ve been quite a wallop. And it didn’t come from hitting his head on the ground.”

  Amelia’s eyes widened. “What did that, Homer? Was anybody else around?”

  “Only me in the alley, as far as I could see. It doesn’t make a bit of sense, but I know it happened.”

  Clara’s lips tightened. “Things like that don’t just happen out of the blue. I think I’ll go outside and have a look around.”

  Amelia waited until she heard the alley door open and close, then she drew a deep breath and summoned up her courage. “Homer, this has to stop.”

  He looked up at her with a puzzled frown. “What? Getting beaned on the head? I’ll agree to that.”

  “I’m talking about your drinking. You and I both know—” She broke off when Clara stepped back inside, carrying Homer’s hat in her hand.

  “I found this in the alley, not too far from where he was lying. This was off to the side.” She held out an oblong brick. “You can see the scuff on his hat where this hit him. Wearing the hat is probably all that kept that bric
k from busting his skull open.”

  Remorse flooded Amelia when she took the heavy brick in her hands. Here she’d been thinking terrible things about Homer, when he’d been the victim of an accident.

  Still, there was that telltale smell of alcohol on his breath.

  As if reading her thoughts, Homer reached for her hand. “I’ll admit I did stop in the Brass Rail on my way back here, just by way of celebrating the paper going out on time. But it was only one drink, and a small one at that.” His lips stretched into a thin line, showing how much it cost him to make even that small admission.

  Amelia squeezed his fingers. “It always starts with one. You don’t want it taking over your life again, do you? I hate what it can do to you. So did Papa.”

  He pulled his hand away, avoiding her eyes. “I know he did . . . but he understood how it could happen. It’s just the way I let off steam when things get a little tense. You have to admit there’s been plenty of pressure around here lately.”

  The bell over the street door jingled, saving Amelia from making a response. A voice called out, “Hello? Anybody here?”

  Amelia’s spirits brightened when she recognized Ben’s voice.

  Clara moved toward the door. “Want me to tell whoever’s out there to come back later?”

  Amelia smoothed her skirt and stepped forward. “No, it’s all right. It’s Mr. Stone. I’ll go see what he wants.” Ignoring Clara’s knowing look—and the grunt from Homer on the bed—she walked out into the printing office.

  Ben grinned when she came into view. “I saw Jimmy out on the street with the latest issue. I know how busy things can get when you’re putting it together, so I thought this might be an opportune time for you to take a break. Would you like to have dinner with me at the Bon-Ton?”

  Amelia’s heart skipped like one of Hyacinth Parmenter’s fluffy lambs. Then her thoughts turned to Homer, and she came back to earth with a thud. “I’d like to, but I won’t be able to this evening.”