A Vote Of Confidence Part 5

Gwen could have argued that point. She thought Bethlehem Springs was as close to perfect as any place could be. So much so that she'd chosen to live in town rather than on the ranch with her father and fraternal twin. Bethlehem Springs suited her as no other place had. She loved that the streets weren't all straight lines, that they didn't run north-south and east-west in perfect, square blocks. She loved that the new mixed with the old. She loved that the stately sandstone munic.i.p.al building was across the street from the livery stable with its faded red paint.

Cleo tilted her head toward the schoolhouse. "Did you know that Miss Thurber has been teaching the children of Bethlehem Springs for the past twenty-eight years? In fact, she grew up here and went to school in that same building."

"Yes, I've heard that before. We're lucky to have her. She's very dedicated. She told me she sometimes buys supplies with money out of her own salary because the school budget doesn't stretch far enough." Gwen shook her head. "That doesn't seem right, does it?"

"It sure doesn't."

Gwen paused a moment on the sidewalk, her gaze still on the schoolhouse. "Don't you think it looks a bit dejected?"

"A fresh coat of paint would go a long way in helping that."

Gwen nodded. Yes, paint would help. But the school needed far more than that.

They continued walking. As they approached the firehouse on Bear Run Road, they were greeted by a man hosing down the driveway in front of the station.

"How's everything, Mr. Spooner?" Cleo called to him.

"Just peachy, Miss Arlington. Same for you and your sister?"

"Same for us."

"That's good. Nice day for a walk."

"We couldn't agree more."

He nodded his head and returned to his work.

After they were out of earshot, Gwen said, "After church last Sunday, Mr. Spooner told me that they could have saved the Goodman home if they'd had the new hoses. He said some of the hoses on the fire wagon didn't carry more than a thimbleful of water before the seams burst. The volunteer brigade's been complaining for more than a year, but the mayor never did anything. If he had, the Goodmans would still have a home."

"That's shameful."

"Thank G.o.d there hasn't been another fire since then. The whole town could go up in flames."

Cleo tsk-tsked tsk-tsked in response. A few minutes later, when they turned onto Main Street, she pointed at the High Horse Saloon. "I heard Tattersall's got a room set up for gambling in the back of that place. It's supposed to be hush-hush, but if even I've heard about it, how come the law hasn't done something to stop it?" in response. A few minutes later, when they turned onto Main Street, she pointed at the High Horse Saloon. "I heard Tattersall's got a room set up for gambling in the back of that place. It's supposed to be hush-hush, but if even I've heard about it, how come the law hasn't done something to stop it?"

"Because Mayor Hopkins looked the other way."

"Uh-huh. And who's going to enforce Prohibition if it becomes the law? Won't be Tattersall if he gets elected."

Gwen stopped and turned toward her sister. "Bethlehem Springs does need me."

Her sister grinned. "Isn't that what I told you? Now you remember that the next time doubt comes knocking at your door."

"I will. I promise."

"Good girl."

Like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him, Morgan McKinley was a man of single-minded purpose, one able to focus on a goal and pursue it without wavering from the chosen path. For as long as he could remember, he had been that way, both in his personal life and his business life. It had served him well during his school years, later as he'd sought healing and relief from pain for his ailing mother, and more recently, in the planning and construction of the New Hope Health Spa.

That's why his persistent thoughts about Gwen Arlington troubled him so.

As he sat at his desk, supposedly writing something for the Daily Herald Daily Herald, he recalled the sweet curve of her mouth when she smiled. He remembered the soft scent of her lilac cologne that had teased his nostrils as they sat next to each other in the Daily Herald Daily Herald offices. How could a woman appear so gentle and refined and yet be such a headstrong, opinionated, obstinate - offices. How could a woman appear so gentle and refined and yet be such a headstrong, opinionated, obstinate - "Stop." He stood and stepped to the window of his study.

The last thing he needed was to be distracted by a female. Any female. But especially this particular one. He needed to think of her as he thought of Hiram Tattersall: just his opponent in this election. Think of her as he would any man who stood in his way, any man who wanted to keep him from achieving his objective.

He groaned. Even in his wildest dreams, he wasn't sure he could picture Gwen Arlington as a man.

"Excuse me, Mr. McKinley."

He turned from the window, glad to be interrupted by Inez Cheevers, no matter what she wanted. "Yes?"

"If you've got a moment, sir, I'd like to introduce the staff I've hired."

"Of course." He strode across the room, following the housekeeper out to the entry hall.

Standing near the front door was a girl of no more than eighteen, her chin tucked to her chest and her eyes downcast; a middle-aged woman with a hooked nose and the shadow of facial hair across her upper lip; and a man of sixty or more whose shoulders were stooped and legs bowed.

"Mr. McKinley, I'd like you to meet Miss Louise Evans who I've employed as the housemaid."

Morgan extended his hand to the girl. "How do you do, miss?"

"I'm well, thank you, sir." Her voice no more than a whisper, she shook his hand but didn't look up.

Morgan glanced toward Inez with a raised eyebrow.

The housekeeper shrugged, then motioned toward the older woman. "This is Opal Nelson, your new cook. She worked in one of the finer restaurants in Boise for many years, but she and her husband moved to Bethlehem Springs this year. Mr. Nelson works at the bank."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Nelson."

"Likewise, Mr. McKinley."

"And this," Inez finished, "is Roscoe Finch. He'll be tending to the upkeep of your house and yard and anything else we need him to do around the place. He's a fine carpenter, by all accounts, and with the right clothes, he could serve as your butler when you entertain."

Morgan tried to imagine the man in butler's attire, but failed. "Welcome, Mr. Finch."

"Thank you, sir. Glad to be of service."

"Mrs. Finch isn't here as she's in Boise visiting her sister, but she'll be taking care of the laundry for the household." Inez rested her hands on her belly. "I've given Louise the attic bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Finch will take the room off the laundry in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Mrs. Nelson won't be living in, but we've agreed she'll arrive for work each morning at six and return to her home after supper every day except Wednesdays, which she'll have off."

Morgan nodded his acceptance to the arrangements.

"Very well, then." The housekeeper looked at the staff. "Let's be about our business, shall we? Mr. McKinley has his work to do, and we have ours."

The new employees scattered, leaving Morgan alone in the entry hall. Rather than returning to his study, he opened the front door and stepped outside onto the veranda that wrapped around the house. From this hillside location, he was afforded an un.o.bstructed view of Bethlehem Springs. And if he wasn't mistaken, he could see the rooftop of Gwen Arlington's home on Wallula Street.

Hers was a modest home made of red brick, single story, perhaps five or six rooms in all. A white picket fence surrounded a well-tended front yard, flowers and shrubs in abundance. A stone walkway led to the covered porch where wooden chairs and a swing invited people to sit and relax in the cool of the evening. He knew all this because he'd made a point of driving past it yesterday.

It hadn't taken much effort for Morgan to learn some details of Gwen's life: raised by her mother in New Jersey; moved to Idaho at the age of twenty-one after graduating from a women's college; taught piano lessons and wrote occasional articles for the newspaper; devoted to her sister and father; attended the Presbyterian church on Sundays; pursued by one Charles Benson whose father owned a sawmill to the south of town. But Morgan would like to know a lot more.

For practical purposes, of course. The more he knew about Gwen Arlington the more likely he was to win this election.

And he meant to win. The success of New Hope could depend upon him becoming the next mayor of this small mountain town. He wasn't about to let a pretty face best him. The sooner Gwen Arlington realized it, the better for all concerned.

SEVEN.

Gwen's favorite day of the week was Sunday.

She loved cooking for her father and sister, but even more, she enjoyed the discussions that transpired after they'd eaten their Sunday dinner and moved to either the parlor or, in nice weather, the front porch. Once settled comfortably, they shared the main points of the sermons they'd heard from the pulpits, Gwen quoting Reverend Rawlings, the minister at All Saints, and her father and sister sharing the words of Reverend Barker from the Methodist church.

Then, invariably, Gwen and her father would debate opposing points of Christian doctrine held to by their respective denominations. Cleo tried to stay neutral and sometimes acted as referee.

This Sunday had followed the familiar pattern.

Leaning against the porch rail - looking more comfortable now that she'd changed out of the dress she wore to church and into her trousers, s.h.i.+rt, and vest - Cleo set her gla.s.s of iced tea on the floor. "Gwen, your roses are prettier than ever, and it's only May." She straightened and moved to the steps. "I'm particularly fond of those." She pointed to a bush near the front gate. "What color would you call that?"

"Peach." Gwen exchanged an amused glance with her father. Mentioning the roses was Cleo's way of indicating it was time for the debate to cease. "I'll cut you some and put them in water for you to take home."

She rose from the swing and went into the house, retrieving a pair of scissors from a drawer in the kitchen. When she came outside again, she saw Cleo had descended the steps and was bent over the rose bush in question, sniffing the petals.

Gwen drew near. "You should plant some roses at the ranch. They would be beautiful along the south side of the house. I could give you some starts."

"Gwennie, I just look at a plant like I'm going to tend it and it keels over dead. I'm far better with horses than green things."

"I'd be happy to show you how - " The words died in her throat at the sight of Morgan McKinley on the other side of her fence.

"Good day, Miss Arlington." He touched his hat brim. Then his gaze s.h.i.+fted to Cleo. "And I believe you are Cleo Arlington. I saw you and your father in church this morning but didn't have an opportunity to be introduced."

Gwen felt her eyes widen. This was the first she'd heard of that. Why hadn't Cleo told her he'd been there?

"I'm Morgan McKinley."

"Pleasure to meet you," Cleo answered. "We were admiring my sister's roses. Aren't they pretty?"

He was looking at Gwen when he answered, "Very pretty, indeed."

She felt an odd quiver in her stomach.

"Out for an afternoon stroll?" Cleo asked.

"Yes. I felt the need to walk after dinner. I have a new cook, and I'm afraid I ate more than I should have."

"I know what you mean. Gwennie's a mighty fine cook herself." Cleo stepped to the gate and pulled it open. "Why don't you come on up and meet our father? He'd probably like some male company."

Forget what their father would like. Gwen would like to kick her sister in the s.h.i.+n.

"That's kind of you, Miss Arlington. Thank you."

"It's too confusing, all this 'Miss Arlington' nonsense, what with the two of us. Call me Cleo. That's proper enough for me. I'm not a candidate for anything." She led the way toward the porch. "Care for some iced tea, Mr. McKinley?"

"Yes, thank you. I would. And feel free to call me Morgan."

When that man left, Gwen was going to throttle her sister. Throttle her within an inch of her life.

She pasted on what she hoped was a pleasant expression and returned to the porch swing.

That Gwen wasn't happy to have Morgan sitting on her front porch in the chair next to her father was as obvious to him as the nose on her face. Oh, she tried to hide her feelings, but he wasn't fooled nor surprised. The surprise was that he wanted to change her feelings. He wished her to be comfortable around him. Despite being her opponent, he wanted her to like him, which wasn't logical in the least.

"Thanks for the iced tea," he said to Cleo. Then, lifting the gla.s.s toward Gwen as if toasting her, he added, "It's very good."

She nodded but said nothing, the swing moving gently forward and back.

It was her father, Griffin Arlington, who broke the silence. "You've shocked a lot of people, Mr. McKinley, by declaring for office. Some are wondering why it took you more than a year to live in that house you bought. Not to mention your appearance in church this morning for the first time."

Morgan nodded, certain there was more to come.

"Living out where we do, I don't have a vote in town affairs, and you don't owe me an explanation if you don't want to give one. But I'd sure like to know why you came to Bethlehem Springs. Seems to me there must be plenty of other places to build that resort of yours. This isn't the only one with hot springs."

"That's a fair question, Mr. Arlington, and I don't mind answering it. I had a number of sites to consider, several of which would have been suitable places to build the resort. All of them had benefits and drawbacks, including the one north of here."

He decided against saying he believed G.o.d directed him to build in Idaho. People usually wanted more concrete explanations than that, and so that's what he gave them. "But after weighing every factor, I came to believe this would prove to be the most successful site."

Gwen s.h.i.+fted on the swing. "You think it will be the most profitable location." Her words seemed to be half-question, half-statement.

"Success isn't always measured by profits, Miss Arlington. But yes, I do believe the resort will turn a profit." Morgan leaned back in his chair. "And, I might add, it will do a world of good for the town too."

"I don't imagine very many of our citizens could afford to stay at your resort."

Should he tell her what his mother, before her death, had envisioned for this spa? No, he didn't think he would share that information. For the moment they were adversaries, and he'd best remember it.

Breaking the silence, Cleo said, "So tell us what your resort's going to do for Bethlehem Springs."

"That's easy enough, Miss Arlington."

She shook her head. "Call me Cleo. Remember?"

"Cleo." He smiled at her. "The resort is already employing a number of men during the construction phase. Carpenters. Bricklayers. Stonemasons. General laborers. And when it's time for our opening, we'll need maids, bellmen, waiters and waitresses for the restaurant, a chef and chef's a.s.sistants, attendants who will work in the bathhouses, ma.s.seurs, stable boys, a physician, a couple of therapists, and several nurses." He lifted his hands, palms up. "As you can see, we'll need many, many people to work at New Hope, and I naturally hope to be able to hire as many as possible from the area."

He could have mentioned the possibility that a railroad spur would be brought up to Bethlehem Springs. But that was too tentative at present. Without the cooperation of the town and county, without his ability to buy more land from them, the railroad would never agree to come here. And lack of train service would definitely be a hindrance for New Hope.

"And it goes without saying," he continued, "that the resort will bring with it a strong tourist trade, which will benefit other businesses in Bethlehem Springs. They'll come into town to attend a performance at the opera house or to eat in one of the restaurants, or they'll want to buy a new dress or a new hat or any number of things that the resort doesn't provide." He glanced from Cleo to her father to Gwen and back to Cleo again.

"That all sounds good," she said, "but it begs another question in my way of thinking."