A Vote of Confidence (18 page)

“No. It can wait.” It was clear he wanted to get into the Ford touring car as soon as possible.

Within minutes, the damaged bicycle and its owner were in the automobile and Morgan was driving down the hillside on Shenandoah,
headed toward the Goldsmith home. As he passed through the intersection with Wallula, he couldn’t help glancing toward Gwen’s
home and wishing he hadn’t upset her the way he had.

Because Owen was right. Morgan
was
sweet on Miss Arlington.

Gwen was standing in the kitchen, the door to the back porch open to catch the breeze, when she heard the
put-putter-put
of an automobile. Her heart leapt at the sound. Was it Morgan’s car? Was he coming here? But no. The sound didn’t stop. It
continued on, fading as the automobile continued down the street.

She opened the oven door and removed the pan holding the pot roast and vegetables.

She didn’t care, of course, that it might have been Morgan’s automobile. It could as easily have been Harrison Carter’s or
one of the two or three other local men who owned motorcars.

But it had sounded like Morgan’s to her.

A groan of frustration slipped from her lips. This was silly, the way she thought of him so often. Silly and totally unlike
her.

I was rude to him this morning.

It was true. She’d walked away while he talked to Reverend Rawlings. She hadn’t spoken a word of good-bye. He had seemed appreciative
that she’d allowed him to sit beside her, and she had responded with irritation and rudeness.

“I wanted to see you at worship. One can learn a lot about a person that way.”

What had he meant by that? Had he been sincere? And why did it matter to her anyway? If it weren’t for the election, they
might never have met, and even if they had, they would have had nothing more than a passing acquaintance.

She recalled that moment, up at the resort site, when she’d felt herself sway toward him, when she’d thought he might kiss
her, when she’d thought she might welcome his kiss, when —

“Gwennie,” Cleo said, “the table is set. Can I help with anything in here?”

“What?” Gwen turned to face her sister, who stood in the kitchen doorway. “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.” Not for anything
in the world would she tell Cleo where her thoughts had been — or upon whom.

“Just wondered if I can help you with anything.”

“No. Dinner’s ready. Tell Dad to come inside. I’ll have everything on the table in a moment.”

Morgan followed Owen up to the boy’s house, carrying the damaged bicycle. Before they reached the front porch, the door opened
and a woman — presumably Owen’s mother — stepped outside. Her brown hair was streaked with gray, and her face was lined with
worry.

“Owen? What happened?”

“Nothin’, Ma. I fell off my bike, that’s all.”

The woman’s eyes shifted to Morgan.

“I saw him take the spill, Mrs. Goldsmith.” He set the bike on the ground, leaning it against the porch. “When I saw the bike
was damaged, I offered to bring Owen home. His knee’s banged up.”

The woman knelt on the porch to examine Owen’s injury, saying not a word about the torn trouser leg.

From the look of things, Morgan guessed the Goldsmith family was none too prosperous. The house could use a coat of paint,
and the porch sagged at one end. He wondered if they would have the funds to fix that bicycle wheel. Probably not. The kid’s
spill would mean no bike riding for a while.

Mrs. Goldsmith stood and looked at him. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name so I can thank you properly.”

“I’m sorry.” He removed his hat. “I’m Morgan McKinley.”

“Oh, you’re the other candidate for mayor.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’ll be voting for Miss Arlington. I’ve known her for a number of years, and she is a fine young woman.”

He smiled to let her know he took no offense at her honesty. “That’s all right. I understand. I’m sure my worthy opponent
has many friends who feel as you do. But I hope I can change at least a few minds.”

“Well, there’s a good chance you’ll get my husband’s vote. He doesn’t much cotton to the idea of a woman mayor.” From the
stiff way she held herself and the tone of her voice, it was obvious her husband’s attitude grated on Mrs. Goldsmith. But
her expression softened as she added, “I do thank you for your kindness to my son, Mr. McKinley.”

“Glad I could be of service, ma’am.” He pointed at the tear in Owen’s trousers. “You take care of that knee.”

“It don’t even hurt anymore,” the boy replied.

Morgan put his hat on his head. “Good day to you both.”

“Good day, Mr. McKinley.”

Morgan turned on his heel and strode back to his car. He couldn’t help but wonder if the votes for mayor might be split along
gender lines. Would the women of Bethlehem Springs vote for Gwen and the men for him? Hmm. Might be that quite a few men would
vote for her simply because of how pretty she was.

If I wasn’t running
,
I’ d vote for her myself.

The family was seated around the table, her father saying grace, when Gwen heard the
put-putter-put
of the automobile again. Almost against her will, her eyes opened and she glanced toward the front door in time to see Morgan
drive past. Only a brief glimpse, but to her chagrin, her heart hiccuped at the sight of him. To make matters worse, when
she turned to bow her head again, she caught Cleo watching her with a knowing gaze.

This Sunday was going from bad to worse.

She whispered, “Amen” at the close of the blessing, then passed the platter of meat to their father.

“Everything looks delicious as usual.” He began to carve the roast into thick, juicy slices.

“Thank you, Dad.”

“I heard that Mr. McKinley attended church at All Saints this morning.” There was a hint of mirth in Cleo’s voice. “Did you
see him there?”

Gwen pretended not to notice that her sister was fishing for information. “Yes, I saw him.”

“Did you speak to him?”

Gwen felt heat rise in her cheeks as she scooped some potatoes and onions onto her plate. “Yes, we spoke briefly.”

“He’s gained the support of many of the men in our congregation,” their father said. “I suppose that’s to be expected. But
Cleo and I will do our best to change their minds before the election. Too bad we live too far out to have an actual vote.”

Would any of them be able to do enough? Gwen hated knowing that many men of her acquaintance would still choose Morgan because
he was a man. It hurt worse that many women would vote for him for the same reason. A lot was riding on next Saturday’s debate. More than she’d thought when she accepted the offer to participate.

Will it be so terrible if he wins?
Perhaps not, but she wasn’t giving up.

At least he seemed to want the same things for Bethlehem Springs that Gwen wanted — better schools, new jobs and prosperity
for the people of the town, fairness and integrity in the local government. That was some comfort.

Cleo intruded on Gwen’s thoughts, saying, “If it’s all right with you, Gwennie, I’d like to come back tomorrow and stay with
you for the rest of the week. Then I can visit every home and business in Bethlehem Springs and encourage everyone to turn
out for the debate on Saturday. Don’t you worry. You’ll show them that you’re made of the right stuff. Morgan’s a likeable
sort, but he hasn’t got the heart for this town the way you do. They’ll see that for themselves come Saturday.”

“Oh, Cleo. I hope you’re right.”

After a quick look around — no one else in sight — Harrison Carter climbed the steps that led to the living quarters above
the High Horse Saloon. He rapped sharply on the door and waited. When his knock wasn’t answered, he let himself in. The apartment
was dark, the curtains drawn over the windows.

“Tattersall?”

He was about to leave when he heard sounds from what he assumed to be the bedroom.

“Tattersall, I’d like to speak to you a moment. It’s Harrison Carter.”

More sounds from the other room, louder this time, followed by a string of curse words. Moments later, Hiram Tattersall appeared
in the doorway, sliding his suspenders up to his shoulders, his upper body clad only in his underwear.

Hung-over, no doubt.

Tattersall blinked a few times, yawned, then said, “Never expected to see you here.”

“Neither did I.”

“And on a Sunday to boot.”

“Tattersall, I’m here about the election. I want you to withdraw your name from the ballot.”

“You what?” The man scratched his left armpit.

“I want you to withdraw as a candidate for mayor.”

“Why should I?”

Harrison’s eyes narrowed. The man was such a fool. Didn’t he know who he was talking to? “There are many reasons, but suffice
it to say that if you do not, you will find your saloon tied up in so many legal entanglements that Prohibition will be the
least of your concerns. Because it just may be that I can find you’ve broken enough laws that they’ll send you to the state
penitentiary.” He took a step closer to Tattersall and lowered his voice. “Because not to do as I request could be the worst
thing you ever do. Do I make myself clear?”

Perhaps Hiram Tattersall wasn’t a complete fool. He stopped asking questions. Gave up any pretense of arguing. “Guess I wasn’t
going to win anyway. Not with you backing that little gal.”

“You’ll see to the details tomorrow, I trust.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Carter. I’ll see to them tomorrow.”

“Good.” Harrison turned toward the door. “I’m sure you are doing so for the good of the town. Good day, Tattersall.”

A refreshing breeze blew off the mountains as Gwen walked toward the mercantile, carrying a basket in the crook of her arm.
The sky was a pristine blue, dotted with cotton-ball clouds. It was the same sort of day that had made her fall in love with
Bethlehem Springs that first summer in Idaho.

A tiny bell sounded overhead as she stepped into the store. From a room in the back, she heard Bert Humphrey call, “Be right
with you.”

“No hurry, Mr. Humphrey.”

She started down one of the aisles. If Cleo planned to stay with her all week, she would need to stock up on supplies. Her
sister might be female, tall, and thin, but she had an appetite as big as any of the cowpokes who worked the Arlington ranch.
Not to mention her sweet tooth. Gwen planned to bake a cake later this morning, hopefully before her sister arrived.

The bell chimed again, and Gwen looked back to see who had entered the store. It was Owen’s mother, Kitty Goldsmith, carrying
a basket of eggs in her arms.

When their gazes met, Gwen said, “Good morning, Kitty.”

Kitty gave her a slight smile that must have taken all her energy. The woman always looked exhausted. Her life was not an
easy one, caring for her three children and for her husband, Patton, who had been injured in an accident at the sawmill three years earlier. To support their family, Kitty sold fresh eggs, worked as
a seamstress, and took in laundry. Patton did odd jobs, as he was able — which wasn’t often enough.