Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

A native of west Tennessee, Dorothy Love makes her home in the Texas hill country with her husband and their golden retriever. An award-winning author of numerous young adult novels, Dorothy made her adult debut with the Hickory Ridge novels. Facebook: dorothylovebooks Twitter: @WriterDorothy

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Every Perfect Gift

Thomas Nelson

Chapter One

The orphanage seemed so much smaller than she remembered.

Sophie Robillard Caldwell peered through the bars of the rusty gate, taking in the boarded-up windows, the weed-choked yard, the frayed remnants of a rope swing shivering in the sharp wind that seemed to whisper long-past taunts. Mutt. Muddlebones. Mongrel.

And worse.

Holding her hat in place with one hand, she looked up at the second-floor window of the room where she'd spent a lonely girlhood daydreaming and spinning stories. She'd expected to feel a sense of familiarity upon returning here, a kind of homecoming. But the moment she stepped off the train, she realized that everything had changed.

True, Jasper Pruitt still ran the mercantile, and his wife still owned the dress shop that had once belonged to Norah Dudley.

The bakery and Mr. Gilman's bank were thriving. The Hickory Ridge Inn, where she was currently staying, was full to overflowing every night. Miss Hattie's restaurant had reopened, and even now the smells of frying chicken drifted on the wind. She would write to her guardians, Ada and Wyatt Caldwell, about that. Despite their many years in Texas, Wyatt still rhapsodized about Miss Hattie's fried chicken.

But the pretty gazebo in the park was gone, and in its place was a statue honoring war veterans. And the riverbank where she had once played on her infrequent outings was covered with rows of new houses sporting gabled roofs and elaborate spindle-work porches. It wasn't only the physical details that made Hickory Ridge feel unfamiliar. It was the new busyness that permeated everything, erasing some of the small-town coziness that had so captured Ada's heart all those years ago.

With a final look at the deserted orphanage, Sophie climbed into her rented rig and clicked her tongue to the horse. According to Wyatt, Blue Smoke was responsible for much of the bustling activity. The massive luxury resort going up atop Hickory Ridge employed dozens of men who had come to town to build roads, mill timber, and construct the three-mile railway spur that took materials up the mountain. Soon a small army of farm girls would find work as housekeepers, laundresses, and serving girls for the moneyed guests arriving by train for weeks or months of tramping, fishing, and horseback riding.

The town was growing again, making this the perfect time to revive the long-defunct Hickory Ridge Gazette.

Wyatt and Ada were less than enthusiastic about Sophie's plan. But her work at the newspaper in Dallas had shown her how important a fair and independent newspaper could be to a town.

She guided her rig along the busy road past Mr. Pruitt's mercantile, her thoughts swirling. Of course the Caldwells were right. She could have stayed on at the paper in Dallas or even found a small Texas town in need of a paper of its own. But the notion that unfinished business awaited her in Hickory Ridge had captured her head and her heart, and here she was.

"Careful, miss!" A farmer, his arms laden with boxes of supplies, jumped back as she approached Mr. Tanner's livery. She slowed the rig and nodded an apology.

Truth to tell, she'd always felt she had something to prove. All those years at the orphanage, where she was treated as inferior, had left a mark on her soul. If she made a success of the Gazette, perhaps then she could vanquish those taunting voices in her head and prove she was as good as anybody, despite the whispers, rumors, and unanswered questions about who she was and where she came from.

Was that such a crazy thing to want?

She left the horse and rig at Tanner's livery and, drawing her shawl about her shoulders, walked the short distance to the newspaper office. The key slid into the rusty lock. The door groaned as she pushed it open. A dull gray light barely penetrated the dirt-streaked windows. In the corners, cobwebs undulated like ghosts. Wooden crates, an empty filing cabinet, and a broken-down bookcase littered the small space. The musty smell of old paper and lead mingled with the dust that rose in clouds when she plopped down in the chair behind the scarred walnut desk, bringing back a memory so sweet and sharp that her eyes filled.

What's that smell? She was ten years old and away from the orphanage for a glorious afternoon with the woman who soon would become her guardian. Smells like an adventure!

She still felt the same way. What could be more exciting than newspapering? Every day brought new stories that needed to be reported, examined, and remarked upon. As soon as her typewriting machine and her supplies arrived, the Gazette would be back in business. Assuming she ever got rid of all this infernal dirt and grime. She ran one hand along the dusty windowsill and checked the small gold watch she wore on a chain around her neck. It wasn't yet noon. There was time to do a bit of cleaning before leaving to conduct her first interview.

Ethan Heyward had been a hard man to pin down. It had taken three wires and two weeks' worth of handwritten notes before he finally agreed to talk to her about his role as codeveloper and manager of the new resort. Finally he'd promised to give her a brief tour of the grounds this afternoon.

Last night she'd tossed and turned, trying out interview questions in her head. The last thing she wanted was to have Mr. Heyward think she was frivolous and simpleminded. It might be 1886, but plenty of men—and women too—thought females were unsuited for business and their only place was in the home. Not that she didn't dream of falling in love with the most wonderful man on earth, making a life with him, having children. What woman didn't? But she didn't want to give up the newspaper business either.

She opened a desk drawer, thumbed through a dusty stack of old invoices, and slid the drawer shut. Why so many people of both sexes thought she had to choose one or the other was the mystery of the ages. Writing for newspapers and magazines was the perfect occupation for a woman who didn't mind persevering in a man's world, and there were plenty of women who agreed. Just look at Nellie Bly. And Mrs. Lydia McPherson, who not only wrote for but also owned one of the biggest newspapers in all of Texas. And Sophie's old boss at the Dallas paper was a woman too. The country was hurtling toward a brand-new century. It was high time for a new attitude about what women could accomplish.

She removed her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, and pumped water into the pail she'd left there yesterday. She dipped a rag into the water and tackled the grimy window overlooking the street, noticing with a sigh that several of the gold letters had worn away. She would have to fix that situation right away. Potential subscribers and advertising customers would be less than impressed by a shabby-looking façade.

She wiped the window clean inside and out and dried it, rubbing the glass until the streaks disappeared, then started on the woodwork. Potential interview questions for Mr. Heyward still swirled in her head. What was he like? She knew little about him, apart from what she'd gleaned from other newspaper accounts— that he was the scion of an old Georgia family, that he was an architect, and that he'd teamed up with a Maryland businessman named Horace Blakely to build the resort many compared to those in Saratoga, New York.

Coming up from Texas on the train, she'd...