Truth Be Told (22 page)

Pushing his chair back, he rose to his feet and began pacing his office. The boy wouldn't get far enough to uncover their carefully laid plans, not if he could block his efforts.

It was like a game of chess, he thought, where a man had to think several moves ahead. There had been a shift in the game's strategy, but that didn't mean the winner was assured, only that he had to adjust his tactics.

Their grand design could still succeed. He would make sure it did. All he needed to do was move things ahead more quickly. He considered a number of strategic moves, trying to foresee what the opposing parties' response might be.

If only it hadn't been for the
Gazette
! He pounded his fist against his palm. Andrew Wagner and his insistence on asking questions had been the start of all their problems. When the man conveniently took sick and died, he'd thought problems from that quarter were over. But no—his upstart daughter had to come along and kept the paper going. As long as she was in charge, the potential for damage remained.

“You look like a man with a lot on his mind.”

Merrick spun around and saw Thaddeus Grayson standing
in the doorway. He hadn't even heard the door open—the man moved like a cat when he wanted to. With an effort, he composed his features and assumed an air of confidence. He and Grayson might be working toward the same ends, but that didn't mean he trusted the man.

Grayson closed the door with a soft click, then walked over to settle himself on the corner of Merrick's desk. From his affable demeanor, an outsider would guess them to be two old cronies ready to settle in for a chat.

“You seem distraught.” Grayson's voice was smooth as silk. “Is there anything going on I should be aware of?”

“Not at all. I was just working out the plans for our next move.” He wasn't about to let the other man know about Ben walking out on them.

Grayson studied him with a long, thoughtful look, as if uncertain whether to believe his assurances or not. Then he gave a slight shrug and seemed to dismiss his doubts. “I just wanted to let you know I'm on my way back to Denver.”

Merrick felt his eyebrows shoot up. “With your stepdaughter, I hope?” He saw a flicker of annoyance in the other man's eyes and felt a spark of pleasure at seeing his jab find its mark.

“Not yet.” Grayson made a show of adjusting his jacket sleeve. “But I'm sure she'll be joining her mother and me shortly.”

Merrick permitted himself a small smile at the other man's discomfiture. “I tried to tell you pushing her so hard wouldn't work. Remember, slow and steady wins the race.”

“Are you referring to your plan of having your young protégé worm his way into her heart?” Grayson scoffed. “I thought it was a bad idea when you first told me of it, and I haven't
changed my mind. That's why I have taken it upon myself to set my own plans in motion.”

Merrick's body grew rigid. “What are you talking about?”

“Some of our investors back east are not happy with the progress you've made—or should I say the lack of it?”

Merrick balled his hands into fists. “What is that supposed to mean? You've been talking to them behind my back?”

“They're anxious to see a return on their investment, and your overly cautious attitude is holding up the whole operation. Their patience is nearing an end. We need to move ahead quickly, and so I've decided more persuasive methods are in order. To that end, I've called in some help, people who can't be tied to either one of us.”

“Are you talking about shoulder-strikers?” Merrick took a step forward. “You can't bring rowdies into this town. You've spent too much time in the East. Out here, you can't mistreat a woman. A lynch mob would string you up as soon as they caught you.”

Grayson chuckled. “I didn't realize you were so sensitive. Don't worry, I'm not going to harm the girl. I just want to discourage her enough to make her realize there's nothing here for her.”

Merrick's head swung slowly from side to side. “People in this town already know there's bad feelings between me and the newspaper. If anything should happen to Miss Wagner, I'll be the first one they look at.”

“In that case, I suggest you establish your whereabouts at all times so you'll have an unimpeachable alibi.” A feline smile curved Grayson's lips. “That's exactly the reason I'm leaving today. I don't want my name to be tied to this, either.”

He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time and stood, brushing a fleck of dust from the sleeve of his immaculate gray suit. “The train will be pulling in shortly, so I'd best be on my way.” Striding to the door, he paused for a moment and turned back to Merrick.

“Our investors need to see some decisive action if they're going to ride this out with us. They won't hesitate to pull their money out if they think this may go badly. My intervention has given us a second chance. Don't ruin it.”

A
melia threaded her way through the Friday shoppers who bustled to and fro along the boardwalk, feeling as though she existed in some sort of bubble. The people around her seemed absorbed in their own activity, and she made no effort to connect with any of them. Not after seeing those hateful quotes about Martin Gilbreth that had been printed in the previous day's issue of the
Gazette
.

From the very beginning, this day hadn't gone well. She'd come down the stairs first thing in the morning, prepared to make amends to Homer. The discovery that he'd been drinking again had upset her, but further reflection made her wonder how much responsibility could be laid at her door. Had her sharp comments, coupled with the pressure of getting the newspaper out singlehandedly, been the catalyst that pushed him over the edge?

Her good intentions were thwarted when she'd found a note propped up on the press:

Need some time to myself. Be back this afternoon.

Thaddeus Grayson's taunting words came back to haunt her. She knew she had hurt Homer, but had she alienated him to the
point he no longer wanted to spend time at the
Gazette
—or around her—on a regular basis?

She'd spent the morning cleaning up around the printing office, then fixed herself a quick lunch before venturing out to see what news she might gather. It was high time she resumed her role as the
Gazette
's chief reporter. But except for her visit to the general store, she might as well have stayed at the newspaper. No one seemed to want to talk to her today. Even the usually genial Emmett Kingston seemed distant.

And once again, Ben was nowhere to be seen. She'd almost summoned up enough nerve to ask for him at the Great Western office, but she simply couldn't bring herself to do it. How she missed his company! She hadn't seen him since he brought those suspected forgeries to the paper.

Where had he been for the past two days? Had he discovered anything more? She longed to talk to him. Perhaps together they could find the elusive answers to the questions that plagued her.
Be honest,
she chided herself.
You'd be happy to talk to him
about anything.

And it was true. Ben Stone had become an important part of the fabric of her life. The image of his slow smile and the way his green eyes seemed to look into her soul filled her thoughts more and more with each passing day. And that near kiss the night of the concert . . . Amelia caught her breath at the memory of his lips, so tantalizingly close to hers. If only they hadn't been interrupted!

She brought herself back to the moment with a start, realizing her daydream had pulled her to a dead stop in the middle of the boardwalk. Feeling her cheeks burn, she quickened her pace and hastened back to the paper. Surely Homer would be back by now.

When she reached the
Gazette
, she pushed open the door, hoping he would be receptive to her apology. She stepped inside the doorway, then stumbled to a halt at the sight that met her eyes. Instead of the neatly organized printing office she left behind, a scene of complete disarray greeted her. The type cabinets lay on their sides, with bits of type scattered all across the room. Sheets of paper were strewn everywhere, and a puddle of ink glistened in the middle of the floor, with footprints tracking through it. Worst of all, the Peerless press had been toppled over.

And Homer was nowhere to be seen.

“Homer!” Amelia shrieked his name as she picked her way through the debris. She went first to her office, feeling her heart clench when she saw the contents of the file cabinets dumped onto the floor.

Whirling around, she raced to the kitchen and then the storeroom. In contrast to what she'd seen in the rest of the building, neither room seemed to have been touched. And there was still no sign of Homer.

The memory of the brick falling on Homer's head filled her with panic.
Where could he be?
She bolted up the stairs and checked each room, but it didn't appear anyone had set foot up there since she came down the stairs that morning.

Relief flooded her. Apparently, Homer hadn't been around when the destruction took place. Returning to the ground floor, she took another look at the devastation. Just putting all the type back into place would be a daunting job. And she couldn't begin to right the printing press on her own.

She had to find Homer. He'd weathered plenty of rough times with her father over the years. She needed him to stand beside her now.

If he had come back earlier that afternoon, only to find her gone, he might have decided to take the rest of the day off. Goodness knew, the man deserved a break. In that case, perhaps she could find him at his cabin.

She rushed out the alley door and hurried to the little cabin he called home. When she knocked on the door, it swung open to reveal Homer sprawled across the bed, looking like a rag doll thrown down by a careless child.

Fear leapt into her throat. So the intruders had been here, too! What had they done to him?

She sprang toward the bed, praying he was still alive. The moment she crossed the threshold, the reason for his ungainly position became clear. The cabin smelled like a distillery.

“Oh, Homer!” Amelia stood over him, anger warring with despair. “Not now.”

Maybe he wasn't too far gone to help her. She nudged one arm and called his name. A low moan was his only response.

Gripping his shoulders, she gave him a hard shake. “Homer, wake up!”

His eyelids flickered open, and he lifted his head slightly to stare at her with an unseeing gaze. Then his eyes rolled back, and his head flopped to one side.

Amelia loosened her grip and looked down at him. Choking back angry tears, she stepped away. Her foot collided with an empty whiskey bottle and sent it rolling across the floor.

A thought struck her. Homer had been upset at her, no doubt about it. He had obviously spent much of the day trying to drown his feelings with alcohol. Just how angry had he been? Angry enough to create the wreckage in the printing office? The thought stabbed at her heart.

Stepping out of the cabin, she closed the door behind her, making sure it latched. She had plenty of questions for Homer, but she wouldn't be getting answers anytime soon. She might as well let him sleep it off. There was nothing more she could do right then, except begin the arduous task of putting the printing office to rights.

Trudging back to the scene of destruction, she circled around the pool of ink and stood near the overturned press to appraise the damage. Now that her initial panic over Homer had subsided, it was even worse than she remembered. Standing forms holding advertisements already set up for the week ahead had been knocked apart. Every one of them would have to be reset.

But that meant putting all the type back in order. She walked over to the overturned cabinet nearest to her. Bending her knees, she took hold of the top and heaved. She managed to raise it all of an inch before it slipped from her grasp and thudded to the floor.

Amelia stepped back and studied the sturdy cabinets. She would never be able to lift them without help. It would have taken strong arms to shove them over and tip the press on its side. How could Homer have managed that on his own?

Before she could begin sorting the type, she had to clear the loose papers out of the way so she could find the scattered pieces. Pulling her apron from its hook and tying it around her waist, she began picking up one armful of ink-stained newsprint after another and stuffing them into the wastebin.

With the papers cleared away, she turned her attention to the type. Thousands of pieces lay strewn helter-skelter across the floor, the different fonts and sizes mingled in a chaotic
jumble. And every one of them would have to be put back into its proper place.

But first, she would need to clean up the spilled ink. She fetched a rag from the storeroom, soaked it in coal oil, and set to work soaking up the mess. As she stepped around the edge of the spill, she took another look at the footprints. More than one person had been there. At least two different sizes of shoes had marched through the ink. And neither of them looked like they belonged to Homer. It looked like she had been wrong in leaping to the conclusion that he had created this havoc. Thank goodness he didn't know of her suspicions.

A new thought struck her like a blow. Then that meant some outsiders had come in with malice in their hearts and wrecked the printing office deliberately. Her hands flew to her mouth.
What if I had been
here when they came?

She darted a glance at the unlocked front door. Whoever had done this might return, and she was in no mood to make herself a target. She strode past the counter to set the lock in place.

Without warning, the door flew open and banged against the wall. Amelia let out a terrified squeal and looked around for something she could use to defend herself.

Clara stepped inside with a bewildered expression on her face. “What on earth is going on here? I just happened to glance in the window as I was walking past. Looks like a tornado went through.”

Amelia sniffled and swiped one hand across her nose. “I don't know what happened. I was away most of the afternoon, and when I came back, I found it like this.”

Clara tilted her head. “You aren't hurt, then?”

“No.” Amelia sniffed again. “Just a little rattled. I can't
imagine who would do something like this. Clara, I'm glad you stopped by. I need to talk to you about that story in yesterday's—”

“Where's Homer?”

Amelia flinched. Apparently, Clara was in no mood for an apology. She tried to answer with a steady voice, but it cracked as the reminder of Homer's condition smote her afresh. “He's in his cabin, out cold.”

Clara's eyes widened. “Someone knocked him out again?”

Amelia shook her head. “He's been dipping into a bottle. Maybe more than one bottle, from the looks of it.”

“So you're all on your own, then.” Without another word, Clara shook her head and stepped outside again, closing the door behind her.

Amelia stared, unbelieving. She knew that article had wounded Clara deeply, but she'd hoped her former friend would have seen fit to offer a word or two of comfort. But now Clara had walked away again. Homer was of no use to her at the moment, and Ben was nowhere to be found. She had never felt so forsaken in her life.

Leaning back, she slumped against the counter and slid down to the floor. Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, she rocked back and forth while her whole body shook with sobs.

“I tried, Papa,” she whispered. “I really did, but I can't do this. I wanted so much to carry on your work and make you proud of me, but I've failed. I didn't get the story you were after, and now I feel so alone. I can't do this on my own, and I'm sorry, Papa. So very sorry.”

In the silence that followed, she felt an urging to shift her
focus. Her earthly father now lay beyond her reach, but her heavenly Father was always with her, ready to listen. “Lord, I'm trying to trust you, but I don't know where to turn next. Something is wrong at Great Western—I feel sure of it. But I can't prove a thing. Every time I try to push a door open, it slams in my face.”

She mopped at her cheeks with the back of her hand and tilted her face upward. “And maybe that's the problem, trying to do this my own way instead of yours. I've been focused on looking for the truth more to vindicate my father than to honor you, and I want to change that right now. Please give me the strength to keep on and the wisdom to know the direction you want me to take.”

Little by little, she felt courage begin to seep back into her spirit. “Thank you, Lord. I know the battle is yours, and it isn't over yet. Please help me keep on fighting.”

Pushing herself up, she scrambled to her feet and looked around. Where to begin? As Clara said, it looked like a tornado had created a swath of destruction. Not a tornado, she reminded herself. This chaos had been created by human hands.

By someone at Great Western? She froze when the thought struck her. It would make sense, but why now? Owen Merrick made no secret of his animosity toward the newspaper, but up to this point his hostility had been expressed verbally, never in a physical way.

She puzzled over the question while she picked up the composing sticks and laid them on the counter. She couldn't imagine Merrick doing this sort of thing on his own. But he might well have sent someone to perform the deed in his stead.

What if they came back? Her heart skittered in her chest,
remembering she had been in the act of locking the door when Clara burst in earlier. Stepping past the counter, she hastened to complete the task.

Scooping up a handful of type pieces, she spread them on the counter and began the arduous sorting process. The doorknob rattled, then a fist hammered the door. Looking up, she could see several shadows on the boardwalk. Her knees gave way, and she clutched at the counter for support.