The Telegraph Proposal Read online

  In the margin of the typed schedule, he had scrawled, Starred items planned by Yancey.

  Hale glanced out the post office window. Miss Palmer and her friend were gone. Was the promise not to chase after him the reason for her coldness? Or was she dropping out and upset by that?

  Did it matter? He didn’t want Yancey Palmer anywhere near his campaign.

  He checked the list. Only two of the seven events were starred. One of them was the joint grand opening of The Import Co. and official campaign announcement; the other was the Independence Day picnic.

  Not too terrible.

  He checked the list again. The first item on Isaak’s list was the general meeting at Mrs. Hollenbeck’s house tomorrow afternoon for everyone who’d agreed to help with the campaign. Hale had asked to remain a behind-the-scenes adviser, so he’d not known about it until yesterday when he’d agreed to run for mayor. His chest constricted at the thought of so many people in one place, all of them wanting something from him. Miss Palmer would certainly be attending, unless she was dropping out.

  Which he hoped she would. Except that meant she couldn’t promise not to chase him again.

  Oh . . . that girl was such a thorn in his side.

  The sooner Portia came to town, the better. Too bad he hadn’t asked her to come by May the fifth, the day of the grand opening and campaign kickoff. It was possible she’d rush to come to him. If she did, it would certainly indicate that her desire for them to meet and progress their courtship was as strong as his.

  But what if Portia didn’t want to come at all? Then what would he do?

  He shook his head. He was putting the cart before the horse. No sense getting worked up about mere possibilities when he had enough actual realities to keep him occupied.

  He left the post office and headed home. His stomach rumbled on his way past Gibbon’s Steak House. He ducked inside to ask Malachi if he could have his usual table at seven. Assured that the restaurant would do everything they could to accommodate his request, Hale hurried home to read Portia’s latest letter.

  He went upstairs to his apartment. Hm. Perhaps he should accept Aunt Lily’s offer to make it homier. The only color relieving the white walls was a painting of Niagara Falls. Growing up in Buffalo, New York, the Falls were a favorite outing for his family. Hale threw out almost every reminder of those days when he came to Helena but couldn’t bear to part with the painting. It hung above the small clock on his fireplace mantel. To the right of his fire iron set was a cast-iron safe. A woman would likely want it somewhere less noticeable, but it was convenient for now—and secure. No one came up here except him.

  What would Portia think if she came? His leather wing-back chair was brown, his wood floors were brown, his table was brown, and the curtains hanging over the windows to his balcony were brown. Even the bedspread in the next room was brown.

  Yes. If Portia agreed to come, he was absolutely asking Aunt Lily for help. He didn’t want his prospective bride taking one look at the temporary home he was offering and board the next train back to Denver.

  After opening the curtains to allow light—and some red and green from the flower box outside—into the drab room, Hale sat down and tore open the sealed envelope. The letter was addressed to My Dear Hale. His chest burned at the sight of it because the closeness growing between them wasn’t only on his end. He read each paragraph, fighting between wanting to savor every word and eagerness to hear all she had to say.

  On the third page, one bit of news leaped out at him. I have begun helping a family friend run for political office. I hope you aren’t put off by a woman eager to do her part to ensure her community is represented by the best man possible.

  No. Not even in the slightest.

  Hale ran his fingertips over the sentences, savoring her beautiful handwriting. He was more certain now than even ten minutes ago that Miss Portia York of Denver was his match.

  Saturday, April 28, 1888

  Hale stepped into the foyer of Mrs. Hollenbeck’s spacious home, his shoes squeaking on the polished black-and-white-checkerboard marble floor. He handed his hat and coat to the butler who’d opened the door for him. “Thank you, Simmons.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” He glanced outside as he draped Hale’s coat over his arm. “If I might be so bold, do you know where Mr. Gunderson is?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Only rumors, sir, but troubling ones.” Simmons closed the door.

  “I assure you, Mr. Gunderson is . . .” Hale stopped the word perfectly from leaving his throat. It was yet unclear if Isaak had convinced Miss de Fleur to marry him. “He’s fine.”

  Simmons bowed. “Very good to hear, sir.”

  Hale turned to his right. The carved mahogany archway between the foyer and parlor was filled with people. Mrs. Hollenbeck had hosted Luanne and Roy Bennett’s wedding over a year ago, and people were able to spread out on her lawn, into the ballroom, and into several other rooms. Now, it seemed like the same number of people were crammed into her parlor.

  His mouth went dry. Why had he agreed to this?

  Because now that his family name was ruined in Buffalo, New York, Helena was home.

  Because two days ago, he’d considered all the other possible candidates while Isaak sat across the desk listing why none of them were suitable replacements.

  Because the town deserved better than someone like Harold Kendrick, a man who used his power to promote his own interests.

  There were more items on the list, but Hale repeated the three main ones in his head until his heartrate slowed.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck weaved through the crowd, stopping to greet everyone until she made it to Hale. “Good to see you, Mr. Adams.”

  He took her hand and bowed over it. “A great pleasure, ma’am.”

  Like her butler, she looked over Hale’s shoulder. “Have you seen Isaak? He apparently left town for a shopping trip, but no one has seen him since. Everyone is talking about his dramatic marriage proposal to Miss de Fleur and whether it means he should drop out of the race.”

  “Might I have a private word with you about that?” Hale tilted his head toward the empty foyer.

  The wealthy widow frowned. “Of course.”

  They stepped away from the crowded parlor, and Hale bent his head to whisper, “Isaak has dropped out. I’m taking his place.”

  “Did he go after Miss de Fleur?”

  “It’s not my place to say, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Hollenbeck’s immediate smile and the conspiratorial gleam in her eye said she understood what he hadn’t said. “I can think of no one better suited to take over for him than you, Mr. Adams.”

  She couldn’t? Equal measures of gratification and trepidation snaked down his spine.

  “We shouldn’t delay telling everyone else.” Mrs. Hollenbeck took his arm and tugged him toward the parlor. She touched a shoulder here, spoke an excuse me there, and soon she and Hale were in the center of the room.

  Too soon.

  He eyed the archway but kept his feet rooted to the floor.

  Because Helena was home. Because it deserved better than Kendrick.

  “Ladies and gentlemen”—Mrs. Hollenbeck clapped her hands five times—“may I have your attention, please.”

  Conversation stilled. Every eye turned to her and then to him as well. Hale held his facial muscles in what he hoped was a pleasant expression. Around the room, brows lowered, eyes squinted, and gazes flitted between him and Mrs. Hollenbeck. Everyone’s except Yancey Palmer’s. She stared at their hostess, never once looking at Hale.

  As with their encounter at the post office, her lack of attention felt odd. Not unwelcome, though. Not at all.

  “Thank you for your attention.” Mrs. Hollenbeck smiled, turning her head to include everyone in the room. “Mr. Adams has some important news regarding our mayoral candidate.” She looked at Hale with an expectant gleam in her brown eyes.

  He stepped into the small circle of space at the center of the
crowd. It was no different from being in a courtroom. No different. He could do this. He’d trained at Harvard, for heaven’s sake. He took a deep breath—or as deep as his still-tight lungs allowed—and worked up enough spit to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen. As I’m sure all of you are aware, Isaak Gunderson and his family have quite a bit on their plates in light of the fire this past Thursday.”

  A few grumbles greeted this statement of the obvious.

  Hale ignored them. “Isaak came to visit me on Thursday night, and we discussed his ability to continue as a mayoral candidate.”

  The sound of a collective intake of breath filled the parlor.

  Hale turned his head left and right to gauge their reactions—just as he did when he was forced to argue before a jury. Which he did as infrequently as possible.

  A few people were still squinting at him, while others had a wary look in their eyes.

  Time to make his point. “I hope you won’t be too disappointed, but Isaak and I agreed that it was best if he stepped down.”

  “Who’s going to replace him?” The question came from a man Hale couldn’t see.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck stepped forward. “Give Mr. Adams a moment to finish explaining, Mr. Cannon.”

  Hale stretched his six-foot frame and lifted his chin a bit so he could look the grocer in the eye. “It’s a good question, sir. I hope you—and everyone else here—will approve of the answer.”

  A few brows cleared. Some people began to smile at Hale.

  He glanced at Yancey, not sure why her reaction mattered to him, but her expression gave away none of her feelings. Bland pleasant was the best description he could come up with, which was uncharacteristic. She usually appeared as if she was waiting for a reason to laugh—and it almost always seemed like it was at him.

  “Go on, Mr. Adams.” Mrs. Hollenbeck’s words accentuated a poke to his arm.

  “Right.” He turned his head so Yancey Palmer wasn’t in his line of sight. “Isaak asked me to take his place.”

  Sighs—of relief or disappointment?—filled the room before they were overtaken by applause. The band constricting his chest loosened. Hands extended toward him. He began shaking them, greeting people by name.

  Which was imprudent, because it didn’t take long for someone he didn’t recognize to come along. What now?

  As though she read his mind, Mrs. Hollenbeck stepped up and introduced him to every unfamiliar person until his head swam with new names and his hand ached. The line finally dwindled, but the worst was yet to come.

  Cries of, “Speech! Speech!” couldn’t be ignored.

  But Hale didn’t make spontaneous speeches. Too much could go wrong. Words were powerful things. They needed to be crafted. Finessed. Massaged until their meaning was clear. He lifted his hand, asking for quiet. “Instead of a speech, how about I answer your questions? I’m sure you have many.”

  Charles Cannon went first. “Where do you stand on banning either the steam car or horses on Helena Avenue?”

  “There are pros and cons to both.” Hale explained the various problems and solutions he and Isaak had discussed.

  “In other words”—Mrs. Hollenbeck inserted as he was winding down—“Mr. Adams believes he can address the concerns of people on both sides without making this an all-or-nothing issue.”

  He frowned. Wasn’t that what he’d just said?

  More questions followed, and Hale had an answer for every one of them. The ease he felt was almost exhilarating.

  Until Yancey Palmer raised her hand. “It seems like you and Isaak have talked over strategy, but I would like to know your campaign slogan.”

  His mind went blank. “My slogan?”

  Her look transported him back to third grade, which was the last time someone stared at him like he was an idiot for being unable to answer a simple question. “Isaak’s was going to be ‘Go with Gunderson.’ How do you feel about ‘Helena Needs Hale’?”

  He hated it, but was that because it was an inherently bad slogan or because Yancey Palmer was the person who suggested it? The question—and the nods and grins on the faces of the people surrounding her—made him think harder. “What about ‘Vote Hale Adams for Mayor’?” Specific. Straightforward. Simple.

  And yet smiles turned to frowns.

  Miss Palmer’s eyes began to sparkle with laughter. Why? He’d said nothing humorous. “How about ‘No Helena without Hale,’ or even better . . .” She paused and raised her eyebrows. “‘Hale—the best for Helena’?”

  He was about to suggest his first, perfect slogan again, but her enthusiasm was contagious. Everywhere he looked, people were smiling and nodding.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck stepped closer and put a hand on his arm. “How about a compromise? ‘Adams for Helena.’”

  Hale smiled at the widow, although—really—what was wrong with his slogan? “A good solution, ma’am.”

  “I don’t think so.” Hale didn’t recognize the feminine voice, so it wasn’t Yancey Palmer’s. “I like ‘Helena Needs Hale’ better.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So do I.”

  Applause erupted.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck waited for it to fade before saying, “I believe a vote is in order. All those in favor of ‘Helena Needs Hale,’ please raise your hands.” So many went up, there was no reason to vote on any of the other suggested slogans. “‘Helena Needs Hale’ it is.”

  There was another round of applause, after which Simmons appeared in the parlor to announce that lunch was ready.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck patted Hale’s arm. “Well done.”

  “Thank you, madam.” Except for the slogan, he had done well. There wasn’t a question he felt ill prepared to answer, and he’d explained his positions without stammering through them.

  Mrs. Hollenbeck leaned close, her voice low. “Would you mind staying behind for anyone who has more questions while I take the rest to the dining room?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She smiled, then turned to the rest of her guests. “If you will follow me . . .”

  No one had questions, so the room was soon empty except for him and Miss Palmer.

  She extended her hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Adams. It seems you have successfully transferred Isaak’s supporters to your cause.”

  Hale shook her hand briefly. “Thank you for your support, Miss Palmer.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “I’m assuming Isaak told you of our agreement regarding my participation in your campaign?”

  Surprised by the lack of emotion in her voice, Hale nodded. “He did.”

  She smiled with that same bland pleasant expression on her face. “I promised Isaak, and now I’m promising you, that I have no intention of embarrassing either you or myself during next week’s grand opening or the Independence Day event.”

  He wanted to clarify by adding, Or at any time before, between, or after, but it seemed ungentlemanly. “Then I expect we can work together successfully.”

  Her smile remained placid. “Excellent. Until next week then, Mr. Adams?”

  “Until next week.”

  She dipped her chin, then turned and exited the parlor.

  Hale stared after her. That was easier than expected. And if she kept her promise, he didn’t foresee any problems.

  Except, perhaps, her reaction to Portia’s arrival.

  Chapter Three

  Yancey tucked a strand of hair back into her topknot. Her back and feet ached after staying to the end of Mrs. Hollenbeck’s party and then the additional time it took to help clean up. The walk home now accentuated that pain with every step.

  At least she wasn’t alone. Carline—who had stayed with her and helped with the cleanup—didn’t seem to mind their slow and steady steps. She lived only two blocks away from Yancey, and they’d shared thousands of stories over the years as they walked back and forth from school, parties, work, and everywhere in between.

  “You’re awfully quiet.” Carline bumped her shoulder against Yancey.

&nb
sp; She shrugged. “Probably because my feet hurt.”

  “Like that has ever stopped you before.” Her friend’s light laugh filled the late-afternoon air. “Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

  They stopped at the corner of Ewing and Fifth and waited for several horse carts to pass before stepping into the street.

  “Well . . .” Yancey thought through what she wanted to say but wasn’t sure she could say.

  Conversation stalled while they navigated around manure piles and mud puddles.

  The rebellious strand of hair that refused to stay in her bun fell in front of Yancey’s eyes again. This time she tucked it behind her left ear. As soon as they reached the other side of the street, she took a deep breath and decided to plunge in and answer her friend’s question. “I think you’re right.”

  “I usually am.” Carline stepped onto the boardwalk and let go of her blue and white, cotton-print skirt. “What am I right about this time?”

  Yancey grinned. “My Hale treasures.”

  She’d started her collection the moment she had returned from the Independence Day picnic almost ten years ago. Her world had fundamentally shifted that afternoon. One minute she was struggling to pull her right arm out of Bruno Carson’s painful grasp while keeping the plate of food in her left hand away from him, the next she was staring into a stranger’s face, knowing in the core of her heart that she’d just met her future. Somewhere in between, Bruno Carson got a bloody lip, let go of her arm, and ran away.

  Because Hale Adams had rescued her like a knight in shining armor.

  He was tall and handsome in a bookish way with his clear brown eyes behind those wire-rimmed glasses. He kept pushing them back into place with his index finger while asking if she was all right or if she needed his assistance getting back to her parents.

  She didn’t need his assistance, but she asked for it anyway. Anything to remain in his company for a moment longer.

  The first thing she did when she returned home that day was to pull the ribbon from her hair and place it in a small box, keeping it for the “something blue” she’d need at her wedding. Over the years, she’d collected more treasures and added them to increasingly larger boxes.