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Mark shook his head. “Hard telling.”
Roy chuckled, his belly shaking with mirth. “Elmer Godwin, who was suffering from a godawful case of gout, got drunk and, in his frustration over the pain, tried to cut off his big toe and damn near bled to death.”
A wry smile tugged at Mark’s lips. “Sorry I missed that issue.”
“Bet Golden Eagle would have paid you plenty for a newsflash like that.” Roy indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Why don’t you take a seat? It isn’t often we get a hotshot reporter from the city in town.”
There was something about Roy Canfield that Mark liked, that he could relate to, although he sure as hell didn’t know what it was. The fact that they were both journalists, he supposed.
“I’ve been sent to write a big spread on the gold rush,” Mark told the older man. “But I doubt there’s anything worthy of a story.”
“You gotta believe, son.” Canfield’s blue eyes sparkled.
“Come on, Roy.” Mark took the seat across from the heavyset older man. “The fortune hunters are spitting into the wind.”
“What about those two brothers who found themselves a couple of good-size nuggets yesterday?”
“You mean the two guys who celebrated at The Hitching Post and ended up at the E.R. getting stitches in one of their hands?” Mark clucked his tongue. “Sure, there might be a few nuggets out there. But the real story lies in the broken dreams of those foolish enough to sell their homes and buy prospecting gear, especially when they don’t know squat about mining gold.”
“You know who Caleb Douglas is?” Canfield asked.
“Yeah. He’s a wealthy businessman and cattle baron who’s developing that new ski resort.”
Canfield nodded. “And right now, the man is more interested in finding the deed to the Queen of Hearts mine.”
“I’d heard he was still having trouble locating the deed. Are you saying he’s caught gold fever?”
“For years, that boarded up mine was considered worthless, except as a piece of real estate. And more recently, as you probably know, Caleb has been focused on that fancy new ski resort and the groundbreaking ceremony next month. But that’s not the case anymore.” Canfield leaned back in his chair, leather creaking and wood squeaking as he rocked. “When a couple of squatters began to hunt for gold on Caleb’s property, he was concerned about liability, more than anything else. After all, enough of those foolish gold hunters have already ended up at the Thunder Canyon E.R. So he posted No Trespassing signs.”
“Makes sense. Besides, any gold on the property belongs to him.”
“But now, Caleb realizes that just because the Queen of Hearts played out years ago doesn’t mean there’s not a new vein.”
“Okay,” Mark said. “Let’s say there is still gold in the Queen of Hearts. How’s that going to help all those prospectors combing the hills?”
“It won’t. But that’s not where your story is, son.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, a squatter challenged Caleb, spouting rumors about mine ownership and questioning who actually had the legal right to run off anyone from the property.” Roy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “If you’ve kept your ears open, you know there are a lot of rumors about how old Amos Douglas won the Queen of Hearts in a poker game a century or more ago. And there’s a lesser known story that some prospector won it back.”
“I went to high school in Thunder Canyon, even though I haven’t been back in twenty years. So I’m familiar with the rumors. You think there’s anything to them?”
Roy shrugged, reached for a pencil and twiddled it through his fingers. “Who knows? Caleb hadn’t been able to find the deed before, thinking it just wasn’t handy. But since then, he began to hunt diligently, and so far, he’s come up empty-handed.”
“How about a title search down at the courthouse?”
“He’s having trouble with that, too. Especially with Harvey Watson out of town on vacation.”
Watson, Mark realized, was the clerk who was trying to computerize the old ledgers.
The semiretired journalist chuckled. “You look bumfuzzled. If I were still at the Tribune, I’d probably scoop you on this one. But I’m not.”
“What are you thinking?” Mark asked, finding himself interested in the old man’s take on the situation.
“If Caleb can’t find the deed, it makes me think at least one of those old rumors must be true. That Amos sold off the property, thinking it was worthless. Or that he lost it in a card game. Or that it was stolen out from under his nose.” The editor grinned like a cat in an aviary. “And that’s where your story is, son.”
Mark pondered what the older man had said. And he found his interest stimulated. Maybe Canfield was right. Maybe Caleb Douglas didn’t own the property. And if there was a new vein, someone else stood to profit. Someone who might not realize it.
“Well,” Roy said, getting to his feet. “I hate to rush you. But I’ve got to run home and eat lunch. My wife has been on my case. She hates every minute I spend down here, although I think she’s more resentful of the money I invested. But what the hell would I do with my time if I retired completely?”
Mark sure didn’t know what to tell him.
“The smell of ink is in my blood. I love my work. And I can’t see myself on one of those Caribbean cruises she’s been pestering me to take, even if I could find the time. I finally got her to take one with her sister, Mildred.”
Canfield didn’t need to explain. Mark understood how the newspaper got in a man’s blood. And how a woman could get upset about the time a man spent away from home.
Hell, Mark had a divorce decree to prove it.
His marriage to Susan, of course, had been years ago. And it hadn’t lasted very long. Just long enough for him to learn how unhappy his travels had made a woman whose only goal in life was to create a home and be a mother—until she got fed up and threw it all away.
But that was all right. Mark loved his job, and having a family would have only tied him down.
As he followed Roy to the door, his thoughts drifted to Juliet and the baby, although he wasn’t sure why. Because they’d spent so much time together, he supposed. Because he probably ought to check on them and make sure things were still okay.
“By the way,” Roy said, as he flipped over the Out To Lunch sign and locked the door. “Are you the reporter who’s been looking after the pregnant waitress at The Hitching Post?”
“Yeah. News travels fast.”
“Hey, Thunder Canyon news is my business, even if it isn’t Pulitzer material.” Roy grinned. “So, did that pretty young woman have her baby?”
“Yeah,” Mark said, a warm glow building in his chest. “Juliet had a tiny little girl. Four pounds, eleven ounces.”
The older man blew out a whistle. “That’s small. Mother and baby doing well?”
“Yeah. They’re doing great.”
“What’d Juliet name the child?” the editor asked. “I might write up a little blurb for the paper.”
“Marissa.”
“Pretty name.”
“Thanks,” Mark said, wondering why he’d felt as though he’d been given a compliment.
Juliet and Marissa stayed in the hospital for two nights and most of the next day. After promising to make an appointment for the baby to see a pediatrician for a weight check in three days, they were released around dinnertime, and Mark took them home.
Then, while mother and baby settled in, Mark went downstairs and purchased dinner at The Hitching Post, even though he was a bit sick of their meals.
He returned to the apartment and let himself in.
“It’s me,” he said, setting the bags of food on the table.
“I’m in here,” Juliet called from the bedroom.
He entered and found her placing the baby in a secondhand cradle and covering her with a green crocheted blanket. He wondered if she’d brought the cradle from San Diego, but didn’t ask. He was too caught up in the scene before him.
Juliet wore a white cotton nightgown, the thin material and the lamplight allowing him a glimpse of her silhouette. The way her breasts seemed fuller, the nipples pronounced. Her belly hadn’t gone back to its normal size, yet she looked beautiful standing over the baby’s bed, her hair glossy and hanging free.
He scoffed at himself for staring. And for finding her still attractive. “I…uh…got pot roast this evening. And strawberry shortcake for dessert.”
“Thanks. That sounds delicious.” She cast him a smile, one that lit her face and made him realize how pretty she was without makeup and any special effects.
He raked a hand through his hair and leaned against the doorjamb. “Mrs. Tasker sent up a bottle of sparkling apple cider in celebration.”
“That was nice of her.”
“She’d also like to come up and see the baby, but I told her tonight wasn’t a good time.” Actually, he didn’t like the idea of having people breathe over the baby. Not yet. She was too tiny, too vulnerable. What if Marissa caught a germ and got sick?
“I’m a bit tired,” Juliet admitted. “Tomorrow would be better.”
Mark hoped she didn’t think he was moving in, or something. He had every intention of taking his shaving kit back to the inn and staying where he belonged. “If you don’t mind, I’ll join you for dinner. Then I’ll head back to the inn.”
“All right.” Her smile faltered, waned. Was she disappointed that he’d be leaving? Afraid she couldn’t handle the baby alone yet?
“Unless you’d rather I stayed one more night,” he added.
“No, that’s all right. I think we’ll be fine.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then glanced at Marissa’s sleeping form. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be right there.”
He nodded, then returned to the dining area. Moments later, she joined him. But she’d slipped on her blue robe and a pair of scruffy white slippers.
Was she getting shy all of a sudden? Or just chilled?
“Should I turn up the heat?” he asked.
“No, I’m not cold.”
Okay. So she wasn’t wearing the robe to ward off a chill. But Mark let it drop.
They ate dinner in silence, an awkwardness settling over them. Mark didn’t have a clue what had caused it. Not exactly. The fact that they’d been playing house maybe. That they’d been a couple for nearly a week. And now playtime was over.
He opened the bottle of sparkling cider and poured them both a glass. Lifting his, he said, “To Marissa.”
Juliet clinked her glass against his, then took a sip. He watched the movement of her swallow, admired the shape of her neck, as he had before. Swanlike. Pretty.
She stood and moved toward the bookshelf that held her family photos, then picked one up, communing with her family the only way she could. She lifted another silver frame, then swiped a hand under her eyes. Her shoulders trembled.
Oh, hell. She was crying.
His mind told him to stay seated. To let her grieve alone. To mind his own business. To find a reason to leave. But for some inexplicable reason, he stood and made his way to her side.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She turned, eyes red and watery. A tear slid down her face. “I’m so sorry they couldn’t see Marissa. That they can’t be a part of her life.”
Mark wrapped her in his arms and drew her close, breathing in the citrusy scent of her shampoo. Offering her his strength. Hoping his embrace was enough.
Her tears continued to fall, so he continued to hold her.
“I’m really sorry,” she whispered into his cotton dress shirt, making it warm and moist. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“It’s the baby. And hormones,” he said, although he had no idea if that were true. It sounded reasonable, he supposed.
His mother used to say that to Kelly, when she locked herself in her room for days at a time. Mark had always figured his sister was depressed because the SOB she’d married had left her barefoot and pregnant. But his parents had been too busy to seek help for her, counseling. Something.
“You’re probably right,” Juliet said, causing him to wonder what it was that he’d said. “It’s normal to have some depression after birth. Some people call it the baby blues.”
She sniffled, as if the crying jag were all over.
Whew. This childbirth stuff was so new. So out of his league.
As he loosened his embrace and let her go, she glanced at the bookshelf, ran her hand along a watermark on the wood. “Manny made that stain. He…”
She sniffled again, then batted away a new tear. And then another.
The next thing Mark knew, he was holding her again. And she was trembling in his arms. “Come on, honey. Let’s take a walk into the other room.”
Of course, the only other room was the bedroom, where Marissa slept. This apartment was so damn small there was no escape from the memories of the past. But maybe the baby would offer her a promise of the future.
When they reached the bed, he used his thumbs to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Why don’t you lie down? You ought to rest while the baby is sleeping.”
“Will you lie down with me? Just for a minute or two?”
He nodded, willing to do anything to make her feel better. To see that pretty Pollyanna smile again.
“Sure.” He joined her on the bed, fully clothed, his loafers still on his feet.
He tried his best to comfort her, as they lay there for the longest time, not talking. Not needing to.
When she finally fell asleep, he continued to hold her.
And he didn’t have the foggiest idea why.
Chapter Eight
Juliet slept better than she had in years.
She’d missed human contact, the warmth of a touch, the comfort of an embrace, the steady beat of a heart. So she nestled in a sweet dimension, somewhere between dreamland and reality, relishing a peaceful slumber.
