Love's Story by Kristin; Dianne; Billerbeck Christner Read Free Book Online Page B

the edge of the tub. She hoped her articles for
McClure’s
magazine would please Asa, her editor. The soft nightgown draped over a nearby chair looked inviting. It wasn’t easy to make the long ride out to the camp.
    As she bathed, she recited a favorite verse, one that usually uplifted her in weary times. “‘I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.’” The Spirit of God nudged her spirit.
Why were you so mad at Mr. Talbot? Because he’s rude and… and… he’s hiding something.
She disregarded God’s question in lieu of her own.
Why didn’t Talbot want his photograph taken? What is Thatcher Talbot’s story?
Meredith reached for her towel.

Chapter 7
    M eredith awoke to the familiar saying of her editor.
“If you fall off the horse, Storm, you’ve got to get right back on.”
The horse, in this instance, was her story. And her instincts told her that her story somehow included Thatcher Talbot. Otherwise, why would her thoughts be consumed by him?
    She donned her brown riding skirt and rehearsed her plans to ride to Bucker’s Stand and get Thatcher Talbot’s story.
    On her way out of town, Meredith reined in her horse outside the newspaper office and dismounted. In her haste, however, her foot slipped through a crack, undoubtedly carved by some logger’s boot, and sent her flailing. She gave a gasp of exasperation and caught her balance.
Take it easy. You know the hazards.
Then at a more dignified pace, she started off again.
    The bell rigged on the door of the newspaper office announced her arrival. After a few polite words, Meredith slapped her story down on Charlie Dutton’s desk.
    â€œRead this. You can tell me later what you think of it. Good day, gentlemen.”
    She strode back to her horse, confident that the newspaper editor would find her article about logging hazards of interest.

    Two hours later, at Bucker’s Stand, the noises of the steam donkey, falling trees, and singing men led her to the center of activity. Jonah waved from his treehouse studio. She waved back, amazed at the way the city man had adapted himself to the rugged environment and rough-edged lumberjacks.
    As usual, Meredith drew some open stares and stolen glances, but she turned a blind eye to all that and put the first phase of her plan into work. Mr. Talbot was peeling the bark off logs. She nestled into the comfortable crook of a low tree branch and reached into her portfolio, aware that Talbot gave her a curious glance. Her back braced against the tree’s trunk, she leisurely swung her legs and began to write, ever watchful of Talbot—her tactic to unnerve him enough that he might approach her and begin a conversation.
    An hour passed. At one point, Meredith became so engrossed in her writing that she unconsciously shifted her seat and caught a splinter in her upper thigh.
    â€œOuch.” She winced, then cast a quick glance to see if anyone noticed.
    To her knowledge, no one had. She scooted off the limb and took stilted, painful steps toward a large redwood. She ducked behind it and twisted to inspect the damage. Her skirt was skewered to her hip with a splinter about the size of a sewing needle.
    â€œAh,” she groaned.
    To see the sharp piece that punctured flesh to clothing intensified the stabbing pain. She twisted again, took ahold of the sliver, held her breath, and yanked.
    â€œAh.” The barb pulled her skin and remained skewered.
    â€œMiss Mears?” It was Talbot’s voice.
    â€œGo away,” she called from her hideaway.
    â€œDo you need help?” His voice now came from just around the other side of the tree’s large round trunk.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œListen. I saw what happened.”
    Her heart raced. This wasn’t going as she had planned. She felt helpless, trapped, foolish. She twisted around and took another look. Now the puncture wound was bleeding and seeping through her