She was late. Eugenia Bell frowned as the church bell rang eight times. Breakfast would be ready. Papa and Aunt Louisa would be seated at the table, waiting while she… Just one more. Eugenia’s frown turned into a smile as she focused the camera. Last night’s frost had coated the lilac bushes, encasing the slender branches in ice, turning the ordinary brown stems into something gloriously beautiful. Just one more.
“Eugenia! Are you out there?” Though Aunt Louisa would never shout, her voice carried clearly through the still morning air, a hint of annoyance coloring her normally sweet tone.
“Yes, ma’am.” Eugenia rose and headed inside, knowing she could delay no longer. “I’ll be ready in a minute.” Quickly she doffed her coat, washed her hands, and followed her aunt into the breakfast room.
Though Papa had already seated himself, he rose to hold out Aunt Louisa’s chair and waited until Norton, the butler who’d been with them since the house was built, placed plates of food in front of them before he bowed his head.
When Papa had given thanks for the meal, he took a sip of coffee and turned to Eugenia. “What was it this time?”
“Lilac bushes.” Eugenia couldn’t help smiling as she thought of the scene that had greeted her this morning. “Oh, Papa, they were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The way the sunshine was sparkling on the ice made it more brilliant than a crystal goblet. I’ve never seen anything so wonderful.”
Though Aunt Louisa gave a small sniff to indicate her annoyance, the corners of Papa’s mouth curved up in what appeared to be amusement. “It seems to me you said the same thing last week, only that time it was the sun setting behind the seamstress’s shop.”
Eugenia continued spreading marmalade on a piece of toast. “Madame Charlotte is not simply a seamstress, Papa. She designs the finest gowns in the city.”
“And I have the bills to prove it.” Papa directed his attention to Aunt Louisa, who had already eaten one of the two soft-boiled eggs that, along with a single piece of toast, constituted her normal breakfast. Marmalade, Aunt Louisa had once declared, was not good for the digestion. Neither Eugenia nor Papa agreed.
Papa slathered an extra-thick coating of marmalade on his toast as he smiled at Aunt Louisa. “The next time you and Eugenia are there, you should determine whether Madame Charlotte is able to make a suitable wedding dress.”
“Wedding?” The bite of bacon that had tasted so delicious a moment ago threatened to lodge in Eugenia’s throat. She knew Papa wanted her to marry—he’d told her countless times that her mother had been his wife for more than four years by the time she was Eugenia’s age—but this was the first time he’d spoken as if her wedding were imminent.
Papa nodded. “Chauncey and I spoke after last night’s meeting. I gave him permission to court you.”
“Chauncey Keaton?” The words came out as little more than a squeak.
Papa nodded again. “He’s the only Chauncey I know. He’s a fine man and one I’ll be proud to call my son-in-law.” Papa continued stirring sugar into his coffee as if this were an ordinary conversation. “Chauncey will make sure you’re well cared for.”
Eugenia did not doubt that, but she wanted more. She wanted love. Though Mama had been gone for more than ten years now, Eugenia could not forget their conversations. “Love is the most wonderful thing in the world,” Mama had said as she’d told Eugenia about the day she’d met Papa and how she’d known he was the man she wanted to marry from the first time she set eyes on him. “He made my heart beat faster,” she had said, “and when he touched my hand, I thought I would swoon.”
Though Chauncey had never set Eugenia’s heart to pounding and she had never come close to swooning over his presence, she could not argue with Papa. Chauncey was a fine man. Like Papa, he’d made his fortune in cattle. Men respected him for his business knowledge. Women considered Eugenia fortunate to have caught his interest. But that wasn’t enough.
“I’m not ready to marry,” she said firmly.
Papa looked up from his scrambled eggs and nodded. “I know that. That’s why I told Chauncey the courtship will last at least six months. I want you to have the chance to see that he’s the right man for you. You know I want you to be happy.”
“Yes.” Although Papa was rarely home, when he was, he was kind to Eugenia, asking about her days, bringing her small gifts, even noticing when she wore a new dress.
“I bought you that camera, didn’t I?” When Eugenia nodded, he continued. “I’ll admit that I didn’t like the idea at first, but you proved me wrong. You’re a fine photographer.”
Though Eugenia wished Papa hadn’t chosen the same adjective he’d used to describe Chauncey to also describe her skill with a camera, she was pleased by his praise. “Thank you, Papa. I enjoy taking pictures.”
“I know that. Your photographs were what gave me the idea for a new project.” He took a bite of the eggs, chewing them carefully before he spoke. “Everyone in Cheyenne is excited that we’re getting a new depot.”
“Finally.” Aunt Louisa wrinkled her nose. “The old one is a disgrace. Why, the men won’t even wait there. They use the hotel lobby instead.”
“All of that will change with the new building. It will be the finest depot on the UP line and the finest building in Cheyenne.” Papa’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm, reminding Eugenia that, as a major stockholder in the Union Pacific Railroad, he had a vested interest in it. “I want to ensure no one forgets this event, so I’ve decided we need a book to commemorate it. I want to document every step with your photographs.”
For a second, Eugenia could not speak. Not even in her dreams had she imagined anything like this. “Oh, Papa, that would be wonderful!” She hadn’t thought he understood how important photography was to her, how much happiness it brought her, but it seemed he did.
“I need a special writer to tell the story,” Papa said. “I’ve had my eye on a man from Denver. If everything works out the way I hope, he’ll be in Cheyenne next week.” Papainclined his head as he addressed Eugenia. “Since you two will be working together, I’ve offered him a room here. I will expect you to make him feel welcome.”
“Of course.” As she pictured a man of her father’s age, Eugenia tried not to frown. No matter how boring the writer might be, working with him would be a small price to pay for the joy of seeing her photographs in a book. And maybe, just maybe, she would find a way to convince Papa that Chauncey was not the man for her.
Mason Farling was bored. Straightening his shoulders, he tried not to yawn. When Mr. Hudson had hired him as a reporter for Denver’s premier newspaper, he’d thought he would be writing articles of substance, covering important news. Instead, he’d found himself assigned to nothing more than church socials and parades. Today was the worst. He’d been here for two hours listening to women debate the merit of a bake sale over a rummage sale. Mason feared the seasons would change before they made a decision. Either that or they’d insist he drink another glass of the sickeningly sweet punch that had made his teeth ache.
Desperate, he spoke for the first time since the debate had begun. “Ladies, I know I’m here only to report your decision, but if I might make a suggestion, I wondered if you’d considered combining both ideas? It seems to me that people might become hungry as they shopped and would visit the baked goods tables. And those who came for a cake or pie might be enticed by the other items.” When no one spoke, perhaps because they were shocked to hear his voice, Mason added, “I think offering both food and general merchandise would increase attendance.”
The response was immediate. Everyone began talking at once, and though it took what seemed like an interminable amount of time, the result was that they agreed with him and adjourned the meeting.
Taking a deep breath as he emerged from the overly warm building, Mason shook his head as he wondered how much more of this he could tolerate. The problem was the alternative was worse. No matter how much he hated feeling as if he were wasting his time with meetings like today’s, he did not want to return to the farm and listen to his stepmother crow that she’d been right and that Mason would never be a writer.
As he approached the newspaper office, Mason said a silent prayer. Lord, You know what is in my heart. Guide me along Your path.
“There’s a letter for you, Mr. Farling.”
Mason stopped, startled by the mail clerk’s greeting. This was the first time he’d received a letter at the office. The few times his family wrote, they sent the mail to his boardinghouse. Curious, he opened the envelope as soon as he reached his desk. As he scanned the contents and the author’s signature, Mason’s astonishment grew. Is this Your answer, Lord?
He read the letter again, making certain he had not missed anything. “I was impressed with your article about the ladies’ quilting society,” the author had written. “You turned an ordinary event into something that appealed to many readers.”
Mason remembered that meeting and how he had struggled to present the ladies’ quilts for the homeless project in such a way that others in the community would contribute fabric and thread. Not once had he considered that anyone outside of Denverwould read the article, much less form an opinion about him based on it.
“I have a new project,” the letter continued. “I want to produce a book to commemorate the construction of the UP depot here in Cheyenne. I have already engaged a photographer and hope you’ll consider being the writer to tell the story that accompanies those photos. It would involve living in Cheyenne for the next eighteen months. I am willing to offer you a salary of…”
Mason swallowed loudly. He hadn’t imagined it. This man was offering him more than twice what he would earn in Denver during that time. “In addition, I will provide room and board at my home.” Mason had no doubt that the accommodations would be far more luxurious than his boardinghouse. Erastus Bell, the man who’d sent this incredible letter, was one of Cheyenne’s millionaire cattle barons. He was offering Mason an opportunity that came only once in a lifetime.
And that wasn’t all. “I appreciate that accepting my offer means leaving your current position with no guarantee that it will be available once my project is completed. I’ve taken the liberty of speaking to Cyrus Taggert.” Mason recognized the name of the owner of one of Cheyenne’s newspapers. “He has agreed to offer you a position if you choose to remain in Cheyenne once the depot is built.”
Mason closed his eyes and gave thanks. Erastus Bell’s letter was truly the answer to prayer. The only thing that could possibly go wrong would be that the photographer was as difficult to work with as the crusty old man who’d accompanied Mason on some of his assignments. But, Lord willing, that would not be the case.