Love's Story (14 page)

“Sit down, Miss Mears.” The newspaper owner's face twitched. “We've a problem with your last article. It's too direct.”

“Caused a stir?” She gave him a ghost of a smile.

“I think every citizen of Buckman's Pride's marched through this door in the last twenty-four hours.”

“That's great! We've got their attention. Now we can…”

“Write a retraction.”

“What!” Meredith sprang to her feet like a lioness protecting her cub. “Never! It's a valid issue, and Buckman's Pride's got to wake up to the facts.”

His eyes snapped. “I realize that.”

“You do?”

“I let you publish the article, didn't I? Now we need to back off a bit. Let things settle. Feed them some more of the fluff you wrote before.”

“News isn't always pleasant to the ear.”

His smile faded. “The logging industry is what this town survives on. You've attacked their jugular vein.”

Meredith reseated herself. She clenched and unclenched her hands. “I don't know if I can do a retraction. I'm not saying I won't. I will if it's necessary. It's just that I have another angle in mind. I need some time. Can the retraction at least wait until the regular weekly column?”

She presented an interesting prospect.

“Yours can. I'll do one from the newspaper today.”

“Fair enough.” The newspaper office's door jingled beneath her departing touch. She paused and turned back to ask, “Did you get any personal threats?”

His voice held a hint of humor. “I guess you could call them that.”

“Me, too.”

Her hand rested on the doorknob. There seemed to be something more on his mind. “As an outsider, you can write things I can't. But you might get run out of town.”

“That's part of being a good journalist, knowing when to pack up and run.”

Meredith pursued her other angles at once. She eased down onto the stiff chair Clement Washington offered her. Meredith remembered that this man did not relish wasted time. As soon as her portfolio hit the floor, rousing a puff of dust, she began to recite her memorized spiel.

“I came to apologize for my recent newspaper article. My accusations referred to sawmills across the country, but in your defense, the town has taken them quite personally.”

A righteous anger bloated Washington's cheeks. “Given your occupation, you are neither naïve nor stupid. Your article's intent was quite clear.”

“But, it was not personal.”

“Then why are you here?”

Meredith held back her own rising emotions and spoke in a calm tone. “Wasting timber is a serious issue.”

“I agree.”

“Then you apply methods of conservation?”

“Let's take a walk.” He didn't expect an answer. His chair scraped against the floor, and a few papers fluttered up to resettle on his quivering desk.

Meredith grabbed her portfolio and scrambled after him, his words hurling back at her. “Wood is a much-needed resource. Where do you think your paper comes from?”

She panted, working up a sweat to keep up with the man's cantankerous strides. “I agree. Timber should be used. Foresters only offer suggestions to keep these resources from running out one day.”

Washington stopped so abruptly that Meredith had to retrace her steps. Her chest heaved as she looked where he pointed. He shouted above the buzzing saws, his finger still thrust forward.

“See what he's doing?”

Meredith gave a half shrug.

“He's sweeping. I keep a clean mill. It cuts down on the chance of fire.”

It was one of the methods of conservation she had read about. “That's a fine thing,” she shouted back.

They watched the mill workers as Washington pointed out to Meredith the many ways that the mill already minimized waste. They utilized the entire tree as it passed through, from logs to shingles. When she had seen enough, they left.

“Mr. Washington, I'm favorably impressed, and I do apologize for the trouble I've caused you.”

“I accept your apology.”

“Even so, I'll feel negligent if I don't share something else with you.”

“By all means,” he gestured with outstretched palms, “don't hold back now.”

She smiled. “President McKinley has appointed Gifford Pinchot as chief of the Division of Forestry. Heard of Pinchot?”

“I've heard of him. Why?”

“His division offers free advice to mill owners. Would you be willing to take a look at such materials?”

He shrugged. “I don't see why not.”

“Then I thank you for your time. I'll get you the information and put some good words about your mill in my next article.”

“I'd appreciate that. In your magazine article, too?”

“You're neither naïve nor stupid,” she said with a grin. “Yes, my magazine article also.”

They shook hands, and she turned to go, then stopped. “Can Jonah take some photographs of your mill?”

“Already has.”

“Some particular shots of how you keep the mill clean?”

“Sure. He'd be mighty welcome.”

Since Mr. Washington's mercurial attitude had turned obliging, Meredith couldn't resist satisfying her own curiosity. “You don't seem like a man who would threaten a woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“I received some nasty messages.”

“Rest assured, they weren't from me.” He looked sincere.

“I believe you.”

“I wouldn't do anything to hurt my friend's wife. Amelia's taken a liking to you.”

“I'm glad we had this talk.”

“Me, too.”

Meredith chuckled at him as she left. For all his explosiveness, she rather liked the southerner. She was glad he was open to conservation. Meredith hurried home to put her thoughts in black and white.

Yet the dawn of a new day in forestry is breaking. Emerson says that things refuse to be mismanaged long.
She hoped her next confrontation, with the bull at Bucker's Stand, would only go as well.

A
sudden dread filled Meredith. The rumbling of distant thunder filled the air and the shadowing dark clouds rolled overhead like a fast-moving locomotive breathing down the back of her neck. The unfrequented forest that stretched across either side of the road with its ghoulish-shaped trees and dense underbrush appeared dark and forbidding—an uninviting place with wild animals more fearsome than the inevitable storm. She bent low, hugged her knees against her mount, and pressed him forward.

“C'mon, boy,” she coaxed. “Think stable.” She might reach Bucker's Stand before the cloudburst.

There was a loud crack overhead, and Meredith's horse faltered but recovered his stride. At first the rain fell hit-and-miss, but shortly following that, stinging drops pelted Meredith and her horse.

“Almost there,” Meredith urged. “Ugh,” she moaned when the sky burst open just as they rode into camp.

Meredith's soggy pants clung to her legs as she swung one over her saddle to dismount. On the ground, her boots slipped on the slick mud, and she slid, her horse sidestepping from the pull of the reins.

“Whoa, boy.” She grappled with gloved hands to bring the skittish beast under control. “That a boy.”

By the time the horse quit dancing in circles, a groom had appeared to relieve Meredith. “Take good care of him.”

“Don't worry, ma'am. We made fast friends the last time he was here.” Then he turned toward the animal. “Here you go, pretty boy.”

Meredith's body shivered until her teeth rattled. She clenched her jacket to her torso and ran in a careful slip-sliding gait toward the bull's tent. From beneath the sagging brim of her hat, she saw a small lake surrounding the tent. There was no way but to slosh through it. When she threw open the flap, a stream of water poured down her neck and face.

The bull's mouth gaped open. “Land sakes, woman, come in.”

“What a mess.”

The bull got up from his desk and disappeared into the back room of his tent. He returned with a wool blanket. “Take off your coat and wrap in this.”

Meredith shivered. “Thanks.”

After she was salvaged with the comforts of chair, blanket, and a warm cup of his coffee, she murmured, “I feel a bit foolish.”

He nodded. “You look foolish.”

“Know why I'm here?”

“Either to lambaste me or apologize.”

“I already did the first. I came to apologize.”

“What a relief,” he mocked and stretched out his legs.

Meredith grimaced as she swallowed down the strong drink. “The town's in an uproar.”

“They'll get over it.”

“Why are you being so nice?”

He gave a half shrug. “Hard to yell at a drowned rat.”

It was impossible to appear professional after that remark, but she tried. “Ever heard of selective logging?”

“Sure.”

She removed her hat and a puddle of water ran down the brim. She wrung it out and placed it back on her head, to the obvious amusement of the bull. She threatened him with a cocked eyebrow.

“Do you use it?” she asked.

“You've seen our operation.”

“I think you could do better.”

“I don't strip the land clean. We only cut what we intend to use.” He shrugged. “But I suppose you're right.”

“Have you investigated conservation methods?”

“Nope. I've left that up to you.”

“Would you, given the chance?”

“What chance?”

She took another swallow of coffee in hopes her teeth would quit clattering enough to finish the business at hand. “I have information. If you would read it, there might be some things you could apply to Bucker's.”

“I'll look at it. But just so you know, I don't make all the rules. I'm not the owner of this logging organization.”

“That's good enough for me.”

“You're shivering again.” The black-haired bull cast a worried glance past Meredith, then heaved himself up to look outside. “We need to find you a place to spend the night. You won't be going back to town in this.”

Meredith's helpless gaze watched the relentless downpour.

“Maybe one of the married men can take you home.” He rubbed his chin and turned back toward her. “Course you aren't the most popular reporter around here anymore.”

“I…” Meredith stopped midsentence when the bull jerked the tent flap open to admit an excited logger.

“Got a minor accident.”

Seeming to forget his castaway, the bull hunched his shoulders and tramped into the rainstorm behind the logger.

Meredith clambered to her feet and sloughed off the blanket as if it were a chain and ball. She had just enough good sense to grab her drenched coat and drape it over her head before she raced after him.

Through the fog and sheets of rain, she saw two injured persons being helped into the bunkhouse. She caught up to them with a gasp.

One of the injured men looked like Thatcher. As Meredith let her coat slip to the ground, her world suddenly shrank to the size of a bunkhouse, a blur of damp canvas, rivulets crossing a mud floor, rows of cots, and an injured man who meant everything to her.

The bull ordered, “Go get Curly.” He was the closest thing to a camp doctor.

Meredith pushed through the haze. “Let me see Thatcher.”

“You can't come in here.”

She gave the bull a look that was mostly a flash of raw fear and hastened to Thatcher's side. A blood-soaked arm lay draped across his chest, where a large, jagged piece of wood skewered his coat sleeve to his arm. When Meredith saw the problem, she almost fainted.

“We've got to get his coat off and get the blood stopped.” The room quieted under her words.

Her gaze swept over the other injured man, whose arms hugged the shoulders of two able-bodied loggers. “Help him to a cot.”

Thatcher groaned. The bull winced when Meredith yanked her blouse out from her trousers. The silence in the room thickened, as the men watched her rip a strip from the bottom of her blouse.

The bull lay his hand on Thatcher's shoulder. “Be still,” he said in his most gentle authoritative voice.

Meredith gave him an appreciative glance. Thatcher's eyes closed, his face pale and his lips parted. “Let's get his jacket off first. Do you have a knife?” Meredith asked.

The bull helped Thatcher sit forward so Meredith could remove the garment. Then he lay back. They used a knife to cut the material away from the arm. Next they cut his shirt away, and Meredith tied the strip of cloth tight around his upper arm.

“I can see to him if you want to get the other injured man's foot propped up.”

The bull nodded.

Meredith leaned over Thatcher and whispered, “The bleeding has stopped some. Try not to move your arm.”

His eyes flickered open. “I feel dizzy.”

“Just rest if you can.”