A Vote of Confidence (2 page)

Twenty minutes later, the touring car arrived on the grounds of what would one day be a unique resort — the New Hope Health
Spa. The main lodge had taken shape at the upper end of the compound. Morgan no longer needed to study the architectural renderings
to imagine what it would look like when finished.

He wished his mother had lived to see it. This spa had been her dream before it became his.

Before the automobile rolled to a stop, the site foreman, Christopher Vance, ran toward them. “Morgan, we’ve got a problem.”

Another one?
“What is it?”

“The dam on Crow’s Creek. It’s leaking. I’m not sure it’ll hold. I’ve got a crew up there now working on it.”

Morgan’s gaze shifted toward the narrow road at the east end of the compound. About a mile up they’d built the dam that would
provide and control the cold water used in conjunction with the natural hot water from the springs.

“I’d better see it for myself. Hop in,” he said to the foreman, “and we’ll drive up there.”

If that dam broke, a good portion of the resort compound could end up covered in several inches of water. Not the end of the
world, but it would stop construction until things dried out. Another delay.

“Somebody did this, Morgan,” Christopher said. “It’s no accident.”

He frowned at his foreman. “Are you sure?”

“Sure enough.”

Why would anyone want to sabotage the dam? It was deep into his property, and he hadn’t diverted water that was needed by
anyone else. No farmers or ranchers were dependent upon the flow of Crow’s Creek. He’d made sure of that.

Could Harrison Carter be behind] it?

On her way to the
Daily Herald
with her latest article, Gwen stopped by the mercantile to inquire about Helen Humphrey. The poor woman had suffered with
severe back pain for more than two months, and nothing she’d tried had relieved it.

“The doctors say rest is the only thing that’ll help,” Bert Humphrey told Gwen. “And even then they’re not sure she’ll ever
be without pain. Maybe the health spa that fellow’s building will do her some good. Nothing else has. Not that we could afford
it. Something that fancy’s bound to cost more than we could come up with.”

“I’m so sorry to hear you don’t have better news, Mr. Humphrey. But, no matter what it costs, do you really believe taking
the waters would help her? I’m afraid I’m somewhat skeptical.”

“I don’t know. I’d try just about anything at this point.”

Gwen offered a sympathetic smile. “Please tell Helen I’ll make some of my chicken and dumplings and bring it over.”

He swept a hand over his balding head. “She hasn’t had much appetite, but I know we’ll be glad for it, all the same.”

“I’ll keep her in my prayers.”

“We’d appreciate it.”

Gwen bid the proprietor a good day, then left the store. As she walked along Wallula Street toward the newspaper office, her
thoughts remained on the resort. There were varying feelings in Bethlehem Springs about the construction of the spa ten miles
to the north. Many people thought it would be good for the town; quite a few local men were already employed as carpenters
and general laborers. Other townsfolk thought the resort would change Bethlehem Springs for the worse, bringing in too many
outsiders. Of course, there were a few in town who thought the spa would fail, so what did it matter?

Gwen didn’t know what to believe. She’d never frequented a spa, although she had gone with Cleo a few times to sit in one of the natural hot springs on their father’s ranch. Enjoyable,
to be sure, but was it a cure for physical ailments? For all she knew, McKinley was a snake oil salesman of the worst kind,
offering a cure to the hopeless — a cure that didn’t exist.

There was also the matter of McKinley being a newcomer to the area. No local had heard of him until he arrived in the area
a year ago. And although the wealthy Easterner had purchased the old Hampstead home on Skyview Street, it sat empty. Folks
said the new owner was at the resort site every day of the week, coming into town only long enough to send a telegram, pick
up his mail, and purchase supplies. Not once had he spent the night in town.

“The time I met him, he was genial enough,” Nathan Patterson, owner and editor of the
Daily Herald
, had said once. “A newspaper friend of mine from Boston says the McKinley family is among the wealthiest in America. Doesn’t
it seem odd that he would end up here, of all places?”

“Thinks himself too good for the likes of us, I gather.” That had been Edna Updike’s opinion — something Gwen’s neighbor never
hesitated to share. “He doesn’t even go to church. A heathen, no doubt.”

“Not much mail ever,” Dedrik Finster, the postmaster, had said in Gwen’s presence just a week ago. “He is mystery,
ja
?”

Arriving at the newspaper office, Gwen shook off thoughts of the resort and the mysterious Morgan McKinley. “Hello, Mr. Patterson,”
she said as she stepped through the doorway.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Arlington. I was wondering when you would have your column for me. What’s your story about this time?”

“The expansion of educational opportunities for women in the past fifty years and the importance of women taking advantage
of them. Did you know, Mr. Patterson, that there were only five women lawyers or notaries in 1870 but almost fifteen thousand
by 1910 ? ”

Nathan shook his head. “Not sure I think women should be lawyers.”

“Why not? A woman doesn’t have an inferior mind. She is as able to grasp the written law as any man. Deborah was a judge in
Israel, if you’ll recall. And if a woman is widowed, isn’t it better that she have an education and a profession that will
allow her to support herself and her children rather than to be dependent upon the generosity of relatives or her church?”

“Well, of course. But — ”

“But not in a man’s profession?” She offered a smile, taking the bite out of her question.

“You have me there, Miss Arlington.” He chuckled. “There is certainly nothing inferior about
your
mind.”

“Thank you.” She held out the carefully penned pages.

Nathan took them. As he glanced down at some other papers on his desk, he muttered, “Wish I could say the same for our one
and only candidate for mayor. Tattersall.” He growled in disgust. “I can’t figure why no one else has stepped forward to run
against him. The election will be here before we know it.”

Cleo’s words echoed in Gwen’s thoughts :
“Why don’t you run for office
,
Gwennie?”
She ignored the shiver of excitement that raced up her spine and posed her sister’s question to the newspaperman. “Why don’t
you run for office, Mr. Patterson?”

“Politics wouldn’t suit me. I’m better reporting the news than making it.”

“Not a reason in the world you couldn’t do it
,
”
Cleo’s voice whispered in her head.

Gwen glanced at the pages in the editor’s hands. She’d written the article to encourage women to step forward, to better themselves, to make a difference in the society in which they lived.
Was it possible God had been speaking to her even as she wrote those words to other women?

Softly, she said, “My sister thinks
I
should run.”

Nathan stared at her.

“It’s a silly notion, of course.” Her heart hammered and her pulse raced. “I told Cleo it was.”

Wordlessly, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin with his right hand. “Silly?” A long pause, then, “I’m not so sure
it is.”

“You’re not?” Her throat felt parched.

“Isn’t a woman mayor a little like a woman judge?” He shot up from his chair, knuckles resting on the top of the desk. “Do
it, Miss Arlington. Run for mayor. The newspaper will put its support behind your candidacy.”

“But Mr. Patterson, I’ve never held public office before. Why would you support me?”

“My gut tells me you would do what needs to be done. You’re articulate and well educated. You obviously aren’t afraid to speak
out when you see a problem the community needs to address. You’ve done so often enough in your columns.”

She wished she hadn’t spoken. She wished she’d kept her thoughts to herself.

“Do it, Miss Arlington. The town will be grateful. And I must admit it would give me plenty of interesting things to write
about in the coming weeks. Never been a woman mayor that I know of.” He jotted a note on a slip of paper. “I’ll have to look
that up. Wouldn’t it be something if we were the first?”

“I haven’t said I’ll do it yet.”

“Think about what it’ll be like here if Tattersall’s elected.”

Gwen took a step back from his desk. “I… I’ll want to pray about it and… and talk to my father.”

“Of course. Of course. You do that. But I’m telling you, Miss Arlington, you should do this.”

Fortunately, Christopher Vance’s worst fears weren’t realized. The damage appeared less serious than first perceived. By late
afternoon, the crew of men had stabilized the dam on Crow’s Creek. More permanent repairs would be undertaken in the morning.

Later that evening, after the camp cook had served dinner and the men were settling in for the night, Morgan walked up the
draw at the north end of the compound and sat on a log where he was afforded a view of the resort site. Behind him and across
from him, ponderosa and lodgepole pines blanketed the steep mountainsides. Wondrous. Awesome. God’s handiwork revealed for
all to see. Morgan had traveled many places around the world, seen many beautiful things, but few had come close to stirring
his heart the way this place did.

His gaze was drawn to the lodge. Four stories tall, the exterior was made of logs, giving it a rugged, western look. But the
interior would be anything but austere. The plans called for fine wall coverings, elegant carpets, original artwork to satisfy
the senses, and large, comfortable guest rooms. The kitchen would have all the latest innovations, a place where the resort’s
chef would create meals for lodgers that were both healthy and delicious.

On the opposite side of the clearing from the lodge, work had begun on the bathhouse and the two pools that would be fed by
the natural hot springs on the property. The bathhouse was fashioned after some of the European spas Morgan had visited with
his mother — private bathing rooms with large, porcelain tubs and two steam rooms, one for men and one for women. But there would be one major difference between New Hope and those European resorts.
Morgan’s spa would be a place for prayer as well as for relaxation, a place for both spiritual and physical healing. In fact,
he was sitting near where the resort’s Danielle McKinley Prayer Chapel would stand.

“What good is physical health,” his mother had often said to him, “if one’s soul is sick?”

God
,
I believe You gave the vision for this place to my mother. Help me make it become all that You desire.

On the heels of his prayer, he thought of Harrison Carter. Why was the man set against him, against this resort? Was it all
because Morgan had refused to sell the land? Surely Carter saw how the resort would benefit Bethlehem Springs. The railroad.
Telephone lines and electrical power. All of which would benefit the people who lived here. Morgan knew he’d find a way to
get what he needed, but it would be difficult if the town and county tied up the lands where the railroad needed to come through.

“If I had a hand in making the laws, things would be easier for honest businessmen.”

If I had a hand in making the laws…

He stiffened.

If I had a hand in making the laws.

No, that couldn’t be the answer.

And yet…

If I had a hand in making the laws.

Bethlehem Springs was gearing up for a mayoral election. From what little he’d heard, there was only one candidate — and not
one people were happy about. Morgan was a citizen of the town. He must be eligible to declare for office.

“The new mayor and the county commissioners must be in agreement on these matters.”

What better way to make certain the new mayor supported Morgan’s plans than for Morgan to be the mayor. Still, that was a
bit drastic. There had to be a better way. Besides, he had no desire to run for office. God had brought him to Idaho for a
different purpose. He didn’t have time to devote to the day-to-day administration of a town like Bethlehem Springs. Governmental
bodies were a necessary evil, but not one he need be part of.