Книга - A Dream To Share

A Dream To Share
Irene Hannon


Businessman Dies Of Boredom In One-Stoplight Town Not even that headline–however true–would save the Oak Hill Gazette. Mark Campbell had been sent to the tiny Missouri town with one goal: to convince Abby Warner to sell her family's financially troubled newspaper to his conglomerate. Then he'd head back to the city and never look back.But it turned out there was much more to Oak Hill than jaywalking chickens and one-hundred-year-old residents. There was beautiful, gutsy Abby. And the way he'd come to feel about her was front-page worthy.












A Dream To Share

Irene Hannon








To Melissa Endlich

Thank you for saying “yes” the third time around!




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen




Chapter One


“I know you’re dead set against this, Abby. But I don’t think we have any choice.”

Abby Warner swallowed past the lump in her throat and stared at James Lipic, who sat next to her at the round table in the Oak Hill Gazette’s tiny conference room. Twin vertical grooves were etched in the center of the older man’s forehead, forming sharp right angles to the flat, resigned line of his lips.

None of the other finance board members looked any happier, she noted, taking a quick survey. Harold Walsh’s ruddy face was pinker than usual, his shock of unruly white hair falling into even greater disarray as he jabbed his fingers through it. Vernon Lutrell stared down at the table, giving Abby a good view of the top of his head, where bristly gray hair spiked to attention on either side of a shiny bald runway. To complete the circle, Tony Parisi doodled on a pad of paper in front of him that was blank except for a series of dollar signs.

That’s what it all came down to, Abby reflected, trying in vain to stem the tide of bitterness that washed over her. The almighty dollar. Forget about truth and heritage and independence. Let’s just make money.

“There has to be another way.” There was a note of desperation in her voice, but Abby didn’t care.

“We’ve tried to come up with other alternatives, Abby, but this is the only viable option.” Harold’s voice was gentle—but firm.

Much as Abby wanted to vent her anger and frustration on the paper’s board, she knew that wouldn’t be fair. Bottom line, it was a fiscal issue. Publishing conglomerates were gobbling up smaller papers, making it difficult for independents to survive.

Nor was this a new problem. The fortunes of the weekly Gazette had begun to sour fifteen years ago, forcing Abby’s father to enlist the aid of three successful local businessmen who were willing to support a free and independent press. Each investor had acquired a fifteen percent share, leaving her father fifty-five percent—a controlling interest.

Then, twelve years ago, he’d had to add a fourth investor in order to keep the paper solvent, tipping the voting power in favor of the board. The members had never sided against him—or her—since she’d taken over ten years ago, after her father’s fatal heart attack. Even now, she knew they’d prefer not to press the issue. But bills had to be paid. And the well was fast running dry. She understood their dilemma: they were all good men who wanted to do the right thing, but their backs were against the wall. Just as hers was.

“We’re open to suggestions, Abby.” Tony spoke again when the silence lengthened. “If you have any other ideas, we’re happy to look into them.”

With unsteady fingers, Abby adjusted her bronze-rimmed glasses. As they all knew, the only source of funding on the horizon was Spencer Campbell, founder and CEO of Campbell Publishing, who had expressed interest in acquiring the Gazette.

“I wish I did, Tony.”

“At the rate we’re going, I doubt we can sustain operations for more than six months,” Vernon offered as he perused the financial report in front of him.

That was pretty much what Joe Miller, the staff accountant, had told her yesterday when they’d gone over the budget. And there was little Abby could do to bolster the numbers. The operation was already as lean as it could get.

Bottom line, Abby felt like a failure. For more than a hundred years, under the leadership of her family, the Oak Hill Gazette had been a trusted voice in the rural counties in Missouri that it served. Her great-grandfather had started the paper in 1904 with little more than a crusading spirit and fifty dollars in his pocket. Her grandfather had won a Pulitzer prize. Her father, too, had held truth and honesty in far higher regard than monetary gain.

Now, under her watch, that sterling legacy would disappear.

“I just can’t see selling the paper to some giant publisher who may not even care about journalistic integrity and all the things the Oak Hill Gazette has stood for during the past century.” Her voice choked on the last word and she dipped her head, blinking to sweep the moisture from her eyes.

“There is another alternative,” Harold said when no one else responded.

He didn’t need to spell it out. They all knew what he meant: let the paper go belly-up. Liquidate. Close up shop. Abby, too, had thought about that option. And dismissed it, convinced that another way would be found to save the Gazette. But they’d run out of time. Selling out or shutting down now had to be considered. Even if both options made her sick to her stomach.

“I’m sorry. It seems I’ve let everyone down.” A tremor ran through her voice, and Abby removed her glasses to massage her forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” James consoled her. “The good Lord knows you’ve tried. It’s just a sign of the times. The little guy can’t compete anymore. At least Campbell Publishing seems to be a reputable outfit. What can it hurt to talk with them?”

He was right, Abby conceded. Agreeing to talk with Spencer Campbell didn’t mean they had to accept his terms. If nothing else, it would buy them a little breathing space. And maybe, just maybe, some other solution would present itself.

Besides, Abby knew she owed it to these men to at least consider the offer. They’d all invested a considerable sum in the paper, more out of friendship for her father than because it was a sound business move. They’d lose a lot of money if it folded.

“Okay.” She gathered up her notes. “I’ll set up a meeting.”

The conference broke up, and as Abby headed back to her office she couldn’t shake off the specter of doom that hovered over her. Time was running out, and she knew that only a miracle would save the Oak Hill Gazette.

So before she turned her attention to reviewing the copy that was waiting on her desk, she took a moment to send a silent plea heavenward.

Please, Lord, grant us that miracle.



Spencer Campbell was not what Abby had expected.

Yes, the patriarch of the publishing conglomerate did look like the photos she’d found of him on the Net. At sixty-eight, he was tall, spare, white-haired and distinguished, with piercing blue eyes and a bearing that commanded respect. And he was just as sharp, astute and insightful as she’d assumed he would be. But instead of the pompous, arrogant manner she’d anticipated from this business tycoon, he was pleasant, personable and down-to-earth.

To her surprise, he also had a hands-on knowledge of the newspaper business. As she’d taken him on a tour of the Gazette offices prior to the finance board meeting, she’d been impressed by his intelligent questions. Spencer Campbell was no ivory-tower executive who understood balance sheets and bottom lines but little else. He’d learned the newspaper business from the bottom up.

“I really did live the American dream,” he told her with a smile as their tour concluded. “Thanks to a combination of lucky breaks, good-hearted people who were willing to take a chance on me and a lot of help from the Man upstairs.”

As she led the way toward the conference room, Abby glanced at him in surprise. “It’s not often you hear successful people attribute their accomplishments to God.”

“I believe in giving credit where it’s due. I couldn’t have built the business without a lot of prayer and a lot of guidance.”

Although Abby had been prepared to dislike the man who threatened her family legacy, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain her animosity as he spoke to the board about his humble beginnings, provided some history of Campbell Publishing, outlined the conglomerate’s growth over the past fifteen years and reviewed the sound—and ethical—operating principles of the company he led.

Instead of an ogre, he came across as a man of integrity, principle and honor. Abby was impressed. And from the expressions on the faces of the board members, she could tell that they were, too.

“When we consider acquisitions, we look for papers that are well-respected, have a solid readership, reflect good editorial direction, maintain the highest standards of journalistic integrity and aren’t afraid to tackle tough issues,” Spencer told them. “The Oak Hill Gazette passed those tests with flying colors. That prompted our call, which led to my visit today. The next step, if both parties agree to move forward, would be an on-site operational and financial audit by one of our staff members. If everything checks out, we’ll follow up with an offer.”

James folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I think it’s only fair to tell you that the main reason we were receptive to your inquiry was because we’re having some financial difficulties. Nothing to do with the management of the paper. Abby does an excellent job. But the pressures these days on small businesses of any kind are intense.”

“I understand,” Spencer responded. “Most independent papers we approach have a similar story. It’s a struggle to make ends meet. As a large organization, we bring economies of scale and efficiencies small papers can’t attain.”

“What about staffing? Do you eliminate jobs after an acquisition?”

At Abby’s question, Spencer turned to her. “When we have to,” he answered, his blunt honesty surprising her. “However, it appears that the Gazette staff is already very lean. I doubt we would eliminate any positions here.”

“What about editorial independence?”

“In general, we don’t interfere.”

“Meaning that sometimes you do?” Abby pressed.

“There have been a few occasions when papers in our organization have become a bit too…opinionated. In general, that doesn’t happen under a seasoned editor. That’s why we often require that editors remain in their positions for a year or two following the acquisition, to ensure consistent editorial tone.”

Abby wasn’t sure she liked Spencer’s answer. But neither could she argue with it. In any case, his message was clear: if Campbell Publishing acquired the Gazette, Abby would be forced to give up the editorial control her father—and his predecessors—had fought with such dedication and diligence to retain.

“Is there anything else you need from us today?” Harold’s question interrupted her thoughts.

“No. I’ll discuss my visit with my staff in Chicago and get back with you in a few days.” A flurry of handshakes followed as Spencer stood, and one by one the four board members left the room.

When only Spencer and Abby remained, he turned to her. “I’d like to thank you for the tour and your hospitality today—in spite of your misgivings.” At her startled look, he chuckled. “I’ve been through enough of these kinds of meetings to pick up the vibes.”

Soft color suffused Abby’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. This has been difficult for me.”

“I’m aware that the paper has been in your family for four generations. It’s understandable that you’d want to hold on to it.”

Abby found herself responding to the kindness in Spencer’s eyes. “That’s part of it. But even more than losing a family legacy, I don’t want the Gazette’s independent voice to be silenced.”

“Neither do I.”

“But you said you’ve intervened in editorial decisions on occasion.”

“Only when we begin to detect bias. But I don’t see that happening here. The coverage is sound and straightforward, and the Gazette never confuses reporting and advocacy. I have no reason to think we’re going to clash on a philosophical level.”

His praise warmed her. And his words reassured her. But they didn’t erase her guilt—or her sense of failure that she was letting a century of blood, sweat and tears be washed away. The paper’s demise might be inevitable, as James has suggested in the earlier finance board meeting, but she wished it hadn’t happened on her watch.

“We’ll both have plenty of time to think about this if we decide to take the next step,” Spencer continued. He picked up his briefcase and extended his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me today and for the tour. I’ll be in touch.”

“And I’ll talk with the board.” She returned his firm grip.

As Spencer exited, Abby closed the door behind him and headed back to her office, disheartened. While no vote had yet been taken, she knew that the finance board had been impressed and would be receptive to an investigation by Campbell Publishing. And intuition told her that Campbell Publishing would choose to proceed, as well.

When she reached her office, Abby sank into her worn leather chair and propped her elbows on the scarred surface of the desk that had belonged to her great-grandfather and which had been used by every editor since. She could no longer pretend that the threat of an acquisition was only a bad dream. She needed to face this. Sticking her head in the sand was a cop-out. Besides, it just wasn’t in her nature.

But first she needed to do something even more out of character.

She needed to cry.



Mark Campbell breezed toward the department secretary’s desk, juggling a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. As usual, his dark good looks and impeccable attire—custom-tailored suit, crisp white shirt, elegant silk tie—drew the interested glance of every unattached woman he passed, and a few glances from the attached ones, as well. It was a reaction he had come to not only accept but expect.

“Morning, Lena.”

“Morning, Mark.” The striking blonde gave him an indulgent smile as she checked her watch. “Must have been some party.”

Well aware that he was forty minutes late, he grinned and shrugged. “Too many parties, not enough time.”

With a shake of her head, she handed him a stack of messages. “These came in after you left last night and before you arrived this morning. You might want to check the top one first.”

Balancing the bagel on top of his coffee cup, he took the slips of paper and scanned the message. “Dad called? What did he want?”

“He didn’t say. Just that he wanted to see you as soon as you came in.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Once in his office, Mark took a few fortifying gulps of the strong black coffee. It helped clear his head after a night of one too many drinks. As the caffeine began to take effect, he admired the sweeping view of Lake Michigan visible through the wall of windows in his high-rise office. Not an unpleasant way to spend his days if he had to work.

And he did have to, as his father had made clear a few years ago. Accounting wasn’t so bad. It didn’t thrill him…little did. But he was good at it. And with a Wharton MBA and a CPA under his belt, he certainly had the credentials for the job—if not the interest. At least it was easy. He could breeze through the workday and then head out to enjoy life. As he had last night. There had been plenty of gourmet food, premium alcohol and gorgeous women on the posh party boat. It was a great life. What more could a man want?

Even as he asked the question, the answer echoed in his mind, as it had with increasing frequency—and urgency—over the past few months.

Something.

Frowning, Mark set his coffee cup on the polished surface of his sleek mahogany desk and shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks, his upbeat mood dissolving. Though he tried not to dwell on that unsettling question—and its unsatisfactory answer—it kept cropping up. Almost anything could trigger it. Like yesterday’s call from his younger brother, Rick. A call that had left him feeling almost…envious.

Which was ridiculous. There was nothing about Rick’s life he coveted. In fact, Rick had always struggled, while things came easily for Mark. Focused and studious, Rick had earned good grades only after great effort. Mark had aced his classes with minimal exertion. Then, after they both earned business degrees, their lives had taken different directions. While Mark took his time getting an advanced degree and taking a leisurely tour of Europe, Rick had accepted an accounting job with a small chain of Christian bookstores, gotten married, fathered two children—the second one was still on the way—and settled into a home in the suburbs.

Mark had never understood why Rick had declined their father’s offer to join the family business. Yet he seemed happy. He now managed the chain of stores, and though Mark suspected Rick’s salary was far less than his, his brother seemed content. Rick’s response yesterday to Mark’s question about his weekend plans had once again confirmed that.

“We have a Lamaze refresher class on Saturday morning. Then we’re going to take Elizabeth to the zoo. We’ll probably go out for pizza and rent a video after that. Sunday is church and grass cutting. And we might barbecue. You’re welcome to join us. It will just be burgers and brats, though. Nothing fancy.”

Mark had only been half listening to Rick’s less-than-exciting agenda and, as usual, he’d declined the invitation. “Thanks, but there’s a gallery opening I promised to attend Sunday afternoon.”

“Your social calendar must be a sight to behold.”

“How about you? Don’t you ever want to get out and have some fun?” Mark has asked.

“I have fun every day.”

Dumbfounded, Mark had needed a couple of seconds to regroup. “You call the nine-to-five routine followed by chores at home fun?”

“I like my job. And what could be better than coming home and sharing a meal with a wife and child who love you? By the way, I saw a face from the past a couple of days ago in one of our bookstores. Mrs. Mitchell. She asked me to give you her regards.”

The sudden dull shaft of pain in Mark’s gut had caught him off guard, and his grip on the phone had tightened. The mere mention of Mrs. Mitchell had brought back a kaleidoscope of jumbled memories and emotions, the good and the bad woven together in a tangled web. He’d stopped trying to sort through them long ago, instead burying them deep in his heart. Especially the ones about Bobby Mitchell. He didn’t want them resurrected now—or ever. The past was over and done.

But if that was true, why should events that had happened more than twenty years ago still have such power to disturb him?

Finding no answer to that question, Mark had ended his conversation with Rick, then tried to put it out of his mind. But it had stayed with him throughout the day and into the evening, despite the many distractions at the party.

It was odd, really. And unsettling. Until recent months, Mark had been just as content with his life as Rick seemed to be. But conversations like the one yesterday with his brother, or watching his father’s unwavering passion and energy for Campbell Publishing, or even simple things like observing a family in the park enjoying a picnic or flying a kite, had begun to affect him. Now when he went home to his professionally decorated loft condo, he was no longer impressed by the great view or the hip minimalist furnishings or the trendy address. Instead he was aware of the emptiness. Not just in the rooms but in his life.

Something was missing. That much he knew. The problem was, he had no clue what it was.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, and Mark took a deep breath as he punched the button, trying to dispel the dark mood that had descended on him. “Yes?”

“Your dad’s office just called again,” Lena reminded him.

“Let them know I’m on my way.”

At least a meeting with his dad would get his mind off his melancholy thoughts, Mark told himself as he left his office and strode down the long hallway, his steps silent on the plush dove-gray carpeting. His father’s secretary waved him in, and without pausing he crossed the threshold into the spacious executive office of Campbell Publishing.

Spencer was on the phone when he entered but motioned him into a seat across the desk.

“I understand, Charlie. Just do the best you can and keep me informed.” Leaning forward, his father set the phone back in its cradle. “Press broke at the printer in Cincinnati. The Register may not meet its delivery deadline.”

“That’s a shame.”

Casting a shrewd eye at his son, Spencer eased back in his chair, propped his elbows on the arms and steepled his fingers. He’d mollycoddled his oldest son long enough, hoping and praying that he’d see the light. That one day he’d recognize he was wasting his life and his God-given talents and get his act together. That he’d care about something with a little more substance than what parties he was going to attend this weekend and which interior designer to hire for his condo.

For years his prayers had gone unanswered. But after his visit to Oak Hill a few days ago Spencer had been hit with an inspired idea. One he hoped would work—but one he was sure his son wasn’t going to like.

“I have an assignment for you. We’re thinking of acquiring a small regional paper in Missouri. I visited there last week. Seems like a good fit.”

“Do you want me to check out the books?”

“Among other things.”

Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Such as…?”

“I need you to do the on-site operational audit, as well. Observe the day-to-day functions of the paper. Get a feel for the place. See how it’s run, check out the management style, sit in on editorial meetings.” He held out a manila folder. “Here’s the background and contact information.”

The younger man ignored the folder. “I don’t know anything about the operational side of the business.”

“You’re thirty-four years old, Mark. It’s time you learned.”

“But it’s not my area of expertise.”

A few beats of silence ticked by. Then Spencer leaned forward, set the folder in front of Mark and crossed his arms on his desk as he pinned his oldest son with an intent look. “If you want to run this company someday, you need to understand the heart of this business as well as the numbers. That includes getting a few ink stains on your hands—figuratively speaking. I think you could learn a lot from the editor down there.”

Abby had impressed Spencer as an intelligent woman with firm principles and a deep passion for her work. Unlike Mark, who’d led a sheltered life, she struck him as a woman who knew what it was to struggle and wasn’t afraid to fight for what she believed in. If Mark needed a wake-up call, Abby Warner might be just the one to give it to him.

“Assuming the Oak Hill Gazette agrees to an investigation, why don’t you plan to leave next Monday?”

The firm set of his father’s jaw made Mark wary. “How long do you want me to stay?”

“As long as it takes. Twelve weeks minimum.”

Mark shot to his feet, his eyes flashing with anger. “You want me to spend twelve weeks in some Podunk town in the middle of nowhere?”

“At least. And it’s in rural Missouri.”

“Same difference. Besides, if it’s a small operation it shouldn’t take that long to do due diligence.”

“This is a special case.”

“In what way?”

His father’s blue eyes turned steely. “You’ll just have to trust me on this, Mark.”

Raking his hand through his hair, Mark struggled to think of some excuse—any excuse—that might save him from banishment to the farm belt. But he couldn’t come up with anything he thought his father would buy.

“Give it up, Mark,” Spencer said as if reading his mind. “I didn’t make this decision lightly. Nor is it negotiable.”

Biting back a sharp retort, Mark glared at his father. “I’m not the best person for this job.”

“You’re the perfect person.” The phone rang again, and Spencer reached for the handset. “Check in with me every few days. I want to be kept informed of your progress…Spencer Campbell here.”

Their conversation was over. No, Mark corrected. This hadn’t been a conversation. It had been an executive order. Picking up the folder, he wandered back to his office in a daze and sank into his leather desk chair. He was being sent to Hicksville, ill equipped for everything except the numbers part of his assignment.

Although he tried to remain angry, Mark didn’t succeed. Nothing had much power to evoke—or sustain—emotion in him. Besides, he’d been coasting for years. He supposed his father had a right to expect him to earn his keep. And, as heir apparent, to learn more about the business than how to crunch numbers.

Still, spending three months in the heartland of Missouri seemed pretty extreme. He’d survive, of course. As for learning anything, he suspected the only thing he’d gain would be a greater appreciation for big-city living.




Chapter Two


Dr. Sam Martin strode into his office, took his place behind the solid oak desk he’d inherited from his predecessor and opened Abby’s file. After giving it a quick scan, he looked at his patient.

“Everything appears normal, Abby. I assume you’re sticking to your diet, exercising, taking your medication?”

“Yes.”

“Good. How are you sleeping?”

“Okay.” That was stretching the truth. With the Gazette’s problems weighing on her mind, she was lucky to manage five or six hours a night. Less since Spencer Campbell had visited the week before.

One of Dr. Martin’s brows quirked up, and his next comment confirmed that he hadn’t missed the blue shadows under her eyes. “How’s the stress level?”

Startled, Abby stared at him. Had the Oak Hill grapevine tipped him off to the paper’s financial troubles?

The doctor leaned back and gave her an empathetic look. “I’ve heard rumors that the Gazette is having some problems.”

Cara must be his source of information, Abby speculated. Dr. Martin had just reconciled with his estranged wife, who’d moved to town and opened a restaurant at the Oak Hill Inn—and become fast friends with Marge Sullivan, the inn’s garrulous owner who knew everything about everybody in town.

“We’re having some financial issues,” she acknowledged.

“Fatigue and stress aren’t good for you, Abby. They’ll only exacerbate your condition. I’m sure Dr. Sullivan told you that, as well.”

“Yes, he did.” But what was she supposed to do? She was the editor. Dealing with problems was part of the job. “I’m working on some options.”

“Good. Until things settle down, I’d suggest you increase the frequency of your monitoring.”

“Okay.”

He closed her file. “I’ll see you again in six months. Call in the meantime if you have any problems.”

As Abby exited the office and stepped out into the August heat, she slowly exhaled. She hated doctor visits. Hated everything about the disease that had killed her mother at far too young an age and which she’d been diagnosed with just a few months ago.

Still, it could be worse, she tried to console herself as she slid behind the wheel of her car. And it might get worse unless she followed her doctors’ instructions. The diet, the exercise, the medication—that was all controllable. But Dr. Martin had homed in on the one thing in her life that wasn’t: stress. And neither of the options for the Gazette’s fate alleviated that.

Lord, help me get through this, she prayed as she drove down Main Street to the Chamber of Commerce meeting. Give me the courage to face whatever challenges lie ahead.



Marge Sullivan banged the gavel on the conference table and called the meeting to order. “Has anyone heard from Ali Mahmoud?”

The other Chamber members shook their heads.

“It’s not like him to be late,” Abby said.

“I know.” Marge propped a hand on her ample hip. “Maybe we should call the restaurant and…”

The door opened, cutting her off, and eight heads swiveled toward the black-haired man who entered. His swarthy skin seemed a couple of shades lighter than usual, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Deep creases on his forehead and around his mouth made him look far older than his forty-six years.

“Sorry I’m late.” He paused on the threshold, grasping the door frame.

A knot formed in Abby’s stomach and she started to rise. “Ali, are you all right?”

“Yes. But the restaurant…that’s another story.”

“Come and sit down,” Marge urged. “Tell us what happened.”

As he took his place, Abby poured him a cup of coffee.

“Thanks.” He gave her a wan smile and took a sip. “We had a fire just before dawn. In the kitchen.”

“How bad is it?” Marge asked, her eyes shadowed with concern.

“Not bad enough to shut us down. But if I hadn’t happened to go in extra early today to prepare for a private party…” He shook his head.

“What caused it?” Abby asked.

“Arson.”

Shocked silence greeted his response. Such crime was unheard of in Oak Hill.

“But who would do such a thing?” Abby asked when she could find her voice.

“That’s what Dale is trying to figure out.”

“And he will,” Marge declared.

In the year since he’d taken on the sheriff’s job Dale Lewis had earned the respect of the entire community. A hometown boy and former L.A. cop, he was sharp, thorough and tough when he had to be. Oak Hill was lucky to have him back, Abby reflected—a sentiment pretty much shared by everyone in town.

“I hope so. Because…well, there was more to it than just a fire.”

“What do you mean?” Marge asked.

“Whoever did this spray painted a message on the back door. Something very…unflattering about Allah. Then it said, ‘Go back where you came from.’”

An ominous chill ran down Abby’s spine. The fire had been a hate crime. Though Abby had read a great deal about such malicious attacks since 9/11, it had never occurred to her that such a despicable crime could come to Oak Hill.

“What did Dale say?” Abby asked.

“That he’d seen a lot of cases like this in L.A. And that it wasn’t always easy to track down the perpetrators. But he promised to do his best.”

“Well, if there’s anything we can do to help, you just let us know,” Marge said, before proceeding with the meeting.

An hour later, when the gathering broke up, Abby stopped to speak with Ali. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your trouble. Hate crimes are bad enough no matter who the victim is, but you were born and raised in the United States. You’re as American as I am. Despite what the message said, this is where you came from.”

“Things like this happened when I lived in Detroit, too. But not on this scale. Just snide comments, pranks, that sort of thing.”

“How can people behave that way?”

“Foreigners often meet with difficulties when they try to assimilate into a community. That’s just the way things are.” His tone was weary and resigned.

“You’ve been in Oak Hill for five years. And you’re not a foreigner.”

“I look like one. This kind of thing is hard to fight, Abby. Changing preconceived ideas, softening people’s hearts…it’s a difficult task.”

That was true. Still, prejudice in any form had always rankled Abby. She supposed it was a gene she’d inherited, considering that her grandfather had written bold editorials about race relations in the United States long before the national consciousness had been sensitized to the issue.

All at once an idea began to take shape in her mind. “It may be difficult, but it’s not impossible. Sometimes people just need a nudge.”

“Or a shove.” Ali summoned up a smile and placed his hand on Abby’s arm. “In any case, I know I have many friends here who have welcomed me and my family to the community. This is just an aberration.” He lowered his hand and checked his watch. “Now I have to run.”

“Be careful, Ali.”

He acknowledged her comment with a wave, and as he disappeared through the door Abby’s expression grew pensive. Maybe she couldn’t catch the perpetrator. That was Dale’s job. But at least she could do her part to soften a few hearts.



Abby tried to ignore her ringing phone. Her attention was focused on the computer screen in front of her, her mind forming the words more rapidly than she could type them as she composed an editorial about hate crimes. She should have forwarded her phone calls to Molly, the Gazette’s administrative assistant/receptionist. But she’d been so fired up when she’d returned from the Chamber meeting that she’d headed straight for her keyboard.

As the phone continued to ring, guilt prickled Abby’s conscience. A reporter never let a ringing phone go unanswered. That was a cardinal rule of journalism. Who knew when a hot tip might be coming in?

With an annoyed huff, she reached for the phone without breaking the rhythm of her typing. “Oak Hill Gazette. Abby speaking.”

“Abby Warner?”

“Yes.”

“This is Mark Campbell from Campbell Publishing. I believe you were expecting my call. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to discuss my visit.”

That got her attention. And broke the train of thought she’d been trying to hold on to. Aggravated, she swung away from her computer screen and closed her eyes. A dreaded doctor’s visit, a hate crime in their town and now this. Lord, how much do you want me to take in one day?

“Ms. Warner? Are you still there?” Impatience nipped at the edges of the man’s resonant baritone voice.

“Yes. Sorry. I was in the middle of something.”

“Would you like to call me back at a more convenient time?”

Yes. Like never, she wanted to say. But the finance board had already agreed to a review by Campbell Publishing. She had to deal with this.

“No. This is fine.” She tried to be cordial. But even to her own ears her tone sounded downright arctic.

“Okay. I’d like to begin Monday, unless that’s a problem.”

From his tone, Mark Campbell didn’t seem to be any more enthusiastic about his assignment than she was, Abby realized in surprise.

“That’s fine with me.”

“I’ll make the arrangements, then. Can you recommend a place to stay?”

“The only lodging in town is the Oak Hill Inn. It’s a B and B.”

“You mean one of those places where you have to share a bathroom down the hall with other guests?”

From his appalled inflection, it was clear that Mark Campbell considered such an arrangement uncivilized—and well beneath him. He’d probably never darkened the door of a B and B in his life. As an heir to a publishing empire, he was no doubt more accustomed to five-star hotels.

“No, the Oak Hill Inn is a bit more progressive than that. Every room has its own bath. They even have running water.”

“Fine.” The stiffness in his voice told her that her barb had hit home. “Do they have high-speed Internet access?”

She couldn’t quite contain her chuckle. “Sorry. This isn’t a big city, Mr. Campbell. If you want high-speed in your room, you’ll have to stay closer to Rolla.”

“How far away is that?”

“Thirty-five miles.” When he sighed, she spoke again. “However, you’re more than welcome to use the Net at our office.”

“I suppose that will have to do. Just give me the contact information for the inn.” Once she’d complied, he didn’t linger on the phone. “I’ll see you on Monday. What time would be good?”

“I’m always here by seven. I’ll see you then.”

“In the morning?”

“Well, I hardly think we’d be starting work at seven in the evening. Though I’m often here then, too.”

“Okay. Fine. I can do seven.”

As she hung up, Abby leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. Mark Campbell seemed to be looking forward to this whole process about as much as she was. But that appeared to be about the only thing they had in common. Spencer Campbell’s son came across as a snob who was accustomed to a cushy life. He exhibited none of the fire and passion for the business that his father had.

Of course, she really shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe he was just having a bad day. As she was.

And she didn’t think tomorrow was going to get much better.




Chapter Three


Seven o’clock came and went on Monday morning with no sign of Mark Campbell.

Somehow Abby wasn’t surprised. From their brief conversation, he hadn’t struck her as a morning person. But she wasn’t going to waste time worrying about his tardiness. She had a lot of work to do and she took her job seriously—even if he didn’t.

An hour later, when Abby answered her phone, he was on the other end.

“Ms. Warner? Sorry I didn’t arrive as scheduled. I, uh, missed my flight last night.”

“I hope there wasn’t an emergency at home.”

“No. It’s a…long story.” Actually, it wasn’t. He’d been at a party Sunday afternoon and lost track of the time—thanks to a gorgeous blonde who’d distracted him. When he’d at last thought to check his watch, he’d known he could never make his flight. But he wasn’t about to share that tidbit with Abby Warner. He already had the distinct feeling that she was less than impressed by him.

“In any case, I’m at O’Hare now, and we should be taking off in a few minutes,” he continued. “When we land in St. Louis I’ll drive directly to your office. That will take a couple of hours, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I should be there no later than one o’clock.”

“We’ll look forward to seeing you.”

I’ll just bet, he thought, as he hung up. She sounded about as eager to see him as he was about trading his high-rise penthouse for a backwater B and B.

But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the town would be far more progressive and up to date than he expected. It might even offer an interesting diversion or two.

At least he could hope.



Several hours later his hopes were deflated. Oak Hill was worse than he’d thought.

As Mark drove down the town’s main street, which was baking in the late-August heat, he scanned the buildings on each side in dismay. It was like a Norman Rockwell slice of Americana—without the charm. A few cars were parked at the curb here and there, but the occupants hadn’t chosen to linger in the hundred-degree midday sun. They must have escaped into one of the tired-looking shops that lined the dusty street.

He saw a soda fountain, a feed store, and a bar and grill on one side. His gaze swept ahead. More of the same. No diversions there.

He switched his attention to the other side of the street. The Tivoli Theater looked promising, except the movie—only one movie, he realized—had played in Chicago weeks ago. There was also an antique store, a real-estate firm, a law office, a dentist, a bakery, a butcher shop. No Starbucks in sight.

In less than sixty seconds he came to the end of the two-block-long business district. How did people live in a place like this?

Shaking his head, Mark checked the street sign at the intersection. Spruce. This was it. His father had told him that the Gazette offices were only a couple of blocks off Main Street.

He turned left and drove past an elementary school, a church, the city hall and a few other businesses tucked in between residential property. No sign of the Gazette.

Backtracking, he recrossed Main Street. A small police station, a doctor’s office, more houses, a tiny library…and finally the Gazette.

Since the newspaper didn’t seem to have a parking lot, Mark eased his rental car next to the curb, under the shade of a towering oak tree. He took a couple of minutes to assess the building across the street he would call home during working hours for the next twelve weeks.

Unimposing would be far too generous a description, he decided. The small one-story white structure had a flat roof and was badly in need of a paint job. Two large windows flanked the front door, and the lettering on the Oak Hill Gazette sign above the entry was faded.

Mark frowned. Why on earth had this place caught his father’s attention? If the condition of the building was any indication, the Oak Hill Gazette had seen better days. From a fiscal perspective, it looked like more of a liability than an asset. The books would soon tell the story, and the good news was that it shouldn’t take him long to do a financial analysis on an operation this size. If the results were negative, maybe this trip would be shorter than he’d expected. Why linger for twelve weeks if the Gazette wasn’t a good acquisition?

His spirits lifting, he opened his door—then sucked in a deep breath as the oppressive saunalike heat slammed against his chest. Chicago could get hot, but this was ridiculous! The sooner he was out of here, the better.

Exiting the car, he was glad he’d opted for a jacket and open-necked shirt instead of a suit. But he was still sweltering. A film of sweat had already broken out on his brow. Grabbing his briefcase, he locked the door and made a beeline for the Gazette.

The air inside the office was cooler…but not cool enough. An ancient air conditioner was probably struggling to keep up with the blast furnace Missourians called summer. Mark flexed his shoulders, trying without success to convince the back of his shirt to release its uncomfortable grip on his skin.

“May I help you?”

A middle-aged woman came through a door at the back of the small reception area and looked at him over the top of her half glasses. A bit stocky, with streaks of gray in her short black hair, she regarded him warily.

“Yes. I’m Mark Campbell. Ms. Warner is expecting me.”

“Have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She gestured toward some chairs surrounding a low table, then moved toward a desk in the corner and picked up the phone.

Not exactly the warmest welcome he’d ever received, Mark reflected as he strolled toward the seating area. But then, most people didn’t like change—the very thing he represented.

He remained standing, staring out the window at the lifeless street, as she spoke in low tones on the phone behind him. A couple of minutes later he heard the door to the inner sanctum open again.

Mark wasn’t sure what he’d expected Abby Warner to look like. But when he turned, the petite woman in the doorway didn’t even come close to any of his preconceived notions. Slender and fine-boned, she couldn’t have been more than five-three or five-four. Her shoulder-length light brown hair, worn straight with a simple part on one side, was touched with appealing glints of copper, and her deep green eyes were fringed by long lashes.

Not that she was his type, of course. He preferred voluptuous blondes.

Still, he couldn’t help but notice that her face had character, for want of a better word, and the kind of classic bone structure that would age well.

As Abby watched Mark give her the once-over, her back stiffened. She was almost tempted to point out that he was supposed to be evaluating her business, not her body. But she held her tongue. A lot of good-looking men went through this kind of inspection with every woman they met. And there was no disputing the fact that the Campbell heir was good-looking.

At close to six feet, Mark Campbell was an imposing figure, with broad shoulders and a toned physique—the result of hours in an expensive health club, she guessed. His dark brown hair was cut short, and she’d put his age at midthirties.

As she finished her own survey, she caught the amused glint in the depths of his dark brown eyes. A warm flush crept up her neck. After faulting him for sizing her up, she’d done the same thing. Well, he’d started it. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to move toward him.

“I’m Abby Warner.” She held out her hand.

At closer range, Mark was struck by the intriguing flecks of gold in the woman’s eyes. And the editor of the Gazette seemed even more petite—and fragile—than she had at a distance. As his hand swallowed hers, he was almost afraid to squeeze for fear of breaking something. “Mark Campbell.”

“I hope you had a good trip, Mr. Campbell.”

“A hot one, anyway. And it’s Mark.”

“Welcome to August in Missouri.” Abby retrieved her hand. “That’s why we dress pretty casual here.”

He’d noticed. In contrast to his perfectly creased gray trousers, impeccable navy blue jacket and tailored blue-and-white-striped shirt worn open at the neck, she sported khaki slacks and a crisp short-sleeved blouse that made her look more like a college student than the editor of a newspaper. At least from a distance.

But now that she was a whisper away, he wouldn’t make that mistake. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes and faint parallel grooves in her brow belonged to a woman who’d known more than her share of fatigue and stress. Concerns about the future of the Gazette could be the cause, he reflected. In fact, hadn’t his father said something about the paper being a family business? He supposed it was time he reviewed the file that had been passed on to him.

Still, her personal problems weren’t his concern, he reminded himself. He was here to analyze the business, not the editor.

“I’ll keep the casual dress code in mind in the future,” he responded. “I can’t say that I’ll be sorry to ditch the jacket.”

A faint brief smile quirked her lips, vanishing as quickly as frosty breath on a cold day. “Would you like a tour now or would you prefer to settle in and come back a bit later? Or even tomorrow morning?”

“I’m up for a tour if this is a good time.”

She nodded, then gestured toward the receptionist. “I’ll just stick with first names for now. You’ve already met Molly. She handles all our administrative work and does double duty as our receptionist. This place would shut down without her.”

A pleased flush spread over the woman’s cheeks, and she rose as Mark walked over to shake her hand.

“How long have you been here, Molly? Twenty-one years?” Abby prompted.

“Twenty-two.”

A warm smile softened the tense lines of Abby’s face. The transformation was remarkable, and Mark caught himself staring. Fortunately Abby didn’t notice.

“All I know is that you’ve been here as long as I can remember,” Abby continued.

“That’s understandable, since you were only ten when I came.”

That made Abby thirty-two, Mark calculated, filing away that piece of information. He wasn’t sure why.

“In any case, Molly does a great job,” Abby noted. “Now let’s go back into the newsroom.”

It didn’t take long to complete the tour. The working space wasn’t large. Abby’s office and a conference room were the only enclosed areas. The rest of the area was divided into eight cubicles. As they moved from one to the other, he met the three reporters—Jean, Steve and Laura—as well as Marcia in marketing/sales, Jason in photography, Les in circulation and Paul in layout. Though Abby smiled at the staff members and their mutual respect was evident, she seemed to grow more subdued as the tour progressed.

He tried his best to put people at ease, insisting on first names and joking when appropriate, but the apprehension in the office was palpable. Was every operational audit this tense? he wondered. To him, an acquisition had always meant an evaluation of the books, an assessment of the effect on Campbell Publishing’s bottom line, done in the plush confines of his office. He’d never factored in the effect on people.

They ended their tour with Joe in accounting.

“How’s Cindy doing?” Abby greeted the sandy-haired man who looked to be in his late thirties.

“Okay. We’ll know more after the third ultrasound in—” he checked his watch “—two hours.”

“The ultrasound is today? Why on earth are you here?” Abby scolded him.

“Well, when the tour got bumped to the afternoon, I figured I should hang around.”

“Cindy needs you more.” Abby turned to Mark. “Joe’s wife is having a complicated pregnancy. You can talk with him later. Bottom line, he’s prepared to offer whatever assistance you need. Other than that, he’ll stay out of your way and let you do your job.”

“I appreciate that. I don’t want to disrupt your operation any more than necessary.” Mark extended his hand, and Joe shook it.

“Now go,” Abby told Joe. “And I’ll keep you all in my prayers.”

The man gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

As Abby led the way back to her office, Mark fell in behind her. Until he examined the books, he couldn’t pass any judgments on Abby’s financial management. But he’d already gotten a good feel for her people skills, based on her interactions with the staff. He gave her high marks there.

In the thirty seconds it took to reach her office Abby tried in vain to shore up her flagging spirits. Until the tour today, she’d been blind to the building’s flaws, much as she’d overlooked the tattered hair, threadbare clothes and patched face of the Raggedy Ann doll she’d loved as a child. The Gazette offices had been her home for so long that she’d never realized how shabby they truly were.

But now she saw the facility through Mark’s eyes. Eyes that noticed the outdated computers, the worn and frayed spots in the carpet, the ancient metal desks. He wouldn’t see the heritage or the passion or the sweat that had gone into creating an award-winning newspaper. He would see just the worn-out physical assets. But there was so much more to the Gazette than that. The challenge would be to convince Mark Campbell of that.

Or not—if she wanted to sabotage his investigation, Abby suddenly realized. If she let him focus on the nuts and bolts, the material goods, he might not recommend an acquisition. The Gazette would be saved from Campbell Publishing.

Then where would that leave her? The sole remaining option was liquidation. And that would be even harder to swallow.

When they reached her small office, Abby scooted past the edge of the massive desk and took her seat, indicating a chair across from her to Mark.

“That’s quite a desk,” he commented as he lowered his long frame into the hard-backed chair.

“It was my great-grandfather’s.” Abby ran her fingers lightly over the scarred surface, her touch almost reverent. “I’m the fourth generation of my family to use it. It always reminds me what went into building this paper and what the Gazette stands for.”

“This is a family business, then.”

Tilting her head, she regarded him with surprise. “Yes. I thought you knew. Your father said he’d given you a background file on the Gazette.”

Hot color crept up Mark’s neck. “He did. I have it with me. I just haven’t had a chance to review it. That’s on my agenda for tonight.”

“I see.”

Too much, he suspected, as her perceptive eyes bored into his. Rarely had he found himself in a situation where he didn’t have the upper hand. And he didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

Sensing that offense was the best defense, he leaned back and crossed one ankle over his knee with studied casualness. “So tell me something. How do you manage to make stories about church socials and little league baseball games and dances at the VFW hall interesting week after week?”

Abby had to make a concerted effort to keep her mouth from dropping open. Not only had he neglected to review the background file, he hadn’t read a single issue of the Gazette. The man hadn’t done a lick of research on his assignment! Struggling to control her temper, she picked up the phone and punched in a number.

“Molly? Would you pull copies for me from the archives for the last six months?”

Replacing the receiver, she turned her attention back to the man in whose hands the fate of the Gazette rested for better or for worse. And she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it was the latter. “What makes you think that’s all we report on?”

An indifferent shrug preceded his verbal response. “What else would you write about?”

“You don’t win a Pulitzer prize writing about church socials, Mr. Campbell.”

“You won a Pulitzer Prize?” He stared at her.

“My grandfather did. For ‘uncommon courage in publishing stories that exposed hazardous working conditions at a quarry operation in rural Missouri, which led to management changes and life-saving improvements.’ That’s a direct quote from the citation that hangs in the reception area.”

So much for his offense.

A knock sounded, and Abby looked at the woman in the doorway. “Come in, Molly. Just put them here. Thank you.”

The older woman set a stack of newspapers on Abby’s desk, then departed.

“While you’re reading the background file, Mr. Campbell, you may want to browse through these, as well. It shouldn’t take you long to discover that the Gazette is about more than church socials and garden club news.”

As Mark eyed the stack, Abby thought back to a conversation she’d had with Spencer Campbell a few days ago, when the older man had asked her to make sure Mark got a thorough grounding in the operational side of the business. Now she understood why. The publishing heir might know numbers, but he didn’t have his father’s hands-on knowledge of publishing—a deficiency the older man seemed determined to remedy. Whether his son liked it or not. And given Mark’s expression right now and his general lack of enthusiasm, she figured it was the latter.

When Mark looked back at Abby, he didn’t have a clue how to interpret her enigmatic expression. All he knew for sure was that this assignment was not starting out well. He was supposed to be the one in charge. Instead he felt like a chastised little boy who’d neglected to do his homework. Okay, so maybe he should have looked at the background file before now. And he supposed the remark about church socials might have been out of line. Well, he’d use the evening to get up to speed. Besides, what else was there to do in this tiny backwater town?

With a sudden move, he rose and reached for the papers. “Thanks for the tour.”

For a second Abby seemed taken aback by his abruptness. Those big green eyes widened in surprise, and a flash of uncertainty flickered across her face. It was apparent that she didn’t like being thrown off balance any more than he did. Good, Mark decided. She needed to understand that two could play this game.

“No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. What time should I expect you?”

There was a challenge in her question. And in her eyes. It was obvious she’d already pegged him as a slacker, Mark deduced. He wasn’t about to reinforce that opinion.

“About seven o’clock. You did say you get here early, didn’t you?” he countered.

“Yes. Seven will be fine. Here’s a key to the office, in case you want to put in any extra hours.”

Her slight smirk as she handed it over told him he’d walked right into her trap. And as he exited her office, he had the distinct feeling that Abby Warner had won round one.

The thing was, he hadn’t realized until too late that he’d even stepped into the ring.




Chapter Four


Abby Warner didn’t have a college degree.

Mark stared at her bio in the file his father had given him and reread the information to ensure he hadn’t missed something. No, there it was in black and white. She’d left college one semester short of getting her journalism degree.

So how had she managed to put him on the defensive? Him, with his impressive MBA and CPA credentials? Nothing in the file had offered him a clue.

With a resigned sigh, he reached for the paper on top of the imposing stack of back issues, took a fortifying sip of the strong coffee the innkeeper had provided and began to read.

Two hours later and halfway through the stack, he leaned back and massaged the stiff muscles in his neck. His almost-untouched coffee had been pushed, unneeded, to the side as he’d become engrossed in the Gazette.

Instead of the garden club news and bingo results he’d expected, he’d found meaty stories on farm subsidies, corruption in city government, the use of inferior materials in the construction of a strip mall, a drug ring at an area high school—the same topics covered by big-city newspapers. And the articles were thoughtful, informative and unbiased. The physical assets of the Gazette might be second-rate, but the reporting was first-class.

Now he understood why his father was interested in the paper. And why Abby had been insulted when he’d impugned the Gazette’s content earlier in the day.

As he rose to stretch the kinks from his back, a knock sounded. Opening the door, he found his landlady on the other side. Though Marge Sullivan was well past middle age, her gray hair was cut in a trendy style and her hot-pink velour sweatsuit looked as if it had come from a hip teen shop. She was definitely not what he’d expected when he’d pulled up in front of the ornate Victorian house.

“I just wanted to see if you needed anything else before I call it a night,” she told him.

Surprised, he automatically lifted his hand to check his watch. Nine-thirty.

“We turn in early here in the sticks.” At the twinkle in her eye, his neck grew warm and he jammed the offending hand in his pocket. “So do you have everything you need?” She peeked around him to give the room a discreet inspection.

“Yes, thanks.”

Her attention was still on the room behind him, her expression assessing. “Why don’t I get rid of some of those froufrou pillows tomorrow? You don’t look like the ruffled-pillow type. And I can ditch those turn-of-the-century books and potpourri on the coffee table to give you a little more room to work. The doilies on the chairs can go, too.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.” His hopeful tone, however, belied his words. For a man used to minimalist decor, the frilly Victorian ornamentation was cloying.

She gave a hearty chuckle. “Honey, Victoriana makes me want to throw up. It’s way too cluttered for my taste. But that’s what folks seem to expect at a historic house like this. I’m a Frank Lloyd Wright fan, myself.”

A smile played at the corners of Mark’s mouth—the first natural one since his arrival in Oak Hill. “Then how, may I ask, did you end up with this—” he made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hand “—edifice?”

She gave an unladylike snort. “That’s a kind word for it. More like a money pit, truth be told. Do you know how much it costs to paint all that gingerbread trim outside? Anyway, to answer your question, I inherited it from an aunt a few years back. I was living in Boston and had hit some hard times. I figured I’d move down here and give this a shot. All in all, it’s been a good thing.”

“Boston to Oak Hill…that must have been quite a change,” he sympathized.

“Life is all about transitions.” She gave a philosophical shrug. “In my experience, you can always find something good in them if you have a positive attitude. I came here determined to like it, to become part of the community, and I did. It’s a nice town, and the people are the salt of the earth.”

She gave the room another sweeping perusal and wrinkled her nose. “The one thing I haven’t reconciled myself to is the decor. Trust me, I’ll be happy to de-Victorianize your room as much as possible. I don’t mind in the least, since you’ll be with me a while. And that reminds me…when would you like breakfast?”

The B and B was a mere five minutes from the Gazette office, but he’d still have to eat way too early to expect anyone to fix breakfast. “Since I told the editor I’d be in about seven, I’ll just grab a bite at the café on Main Street.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I’m up with the chickens, anyway. How about six-thirty? I can do sausages and eggs and biscuits, maybe some muffins.”

The thought of that much food early in the morning made him queasy. “Really, it’s okay. I’m not much of a breakfast eater, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t eat all that stuff myself, either. But most guests seems to expect it. If you ask me, it’s a heart attack on a plate. Let’s see…how about a simple omelet and English muffin? Or a whole-wheat waffle with fresh fruit?”

“Either one sounds great.”

“I’ll surprise you, then. And I’ll have you out of here in plenty of time to get to the Gazette by seven. But don’t you let Abby guilt you into putting in long hours just because she does. That woman works way too hard. Needs a little more fun in her life, if you ask me. I know she’s upset about this whole acquisition thing, but to tell the truth, it could be just what the doctor ordered. All that stress is taking a toll on her.”

It appeared he’d found an ally in the innkeeper, Mark realized with relief. That was refreshing after the wary reception he’d gotten from the staff at the Gazette. He smiled at her. “It’s nice to know I have one friend in town, Ms. Sullivan.”

“Call me Marge. And don’t be too hard on Abby. It’s a big responsibility to be the keeper of four generations of heritage. But she’s a reasonable person, and I’m betting that once she reconciles herself to this and gets to know you, she’ll give you a fair chance.”

As Marge bid him good-night and shut the door, Mark mulled over her last comment. Would Abby give him a fair chance? They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, that was for sure. Not that it should matter. His stay in Oak Hill would be brief. He had a job to do and Abby’s opinion of him was irrelevant. He shouldn’t even care what she thought about him.

But for some odd reason, he did.



After consulting his watch, Mark slipped the balance sheet back into the file and added it the stack on the table in front of him. In his first three and a half days he’d made tremendous progress on the financial audit at the Gazette. By tomorrow, when he left to spend the weekend in Chicago, he expected to have a preliminary review completed. There was much detail work that remained to be done, but it wasn’t bad for a first week’s effort, he thought in satisfaction.

He’d also established a routine. Starting on Tuesday, he’d arrived between seven and seven-thirty each day—which was far less difficult than he’d expected, since he went to bed at ten o’clock every night for lack of anything else to do. He kept his nose to the grindstone throughout the day, clocking out with everyone else—except Abby—at five o’clock.

The evenings had been a little more difficult to fill. He’d asked Marge about a local gym, but since there wasn’t one she’d offered to let him use her late uncle’s NordicTrack in the basement. That ate up an hour. Then he went to Gus’s, the local diner—a place he’d quickly nicknamed Grease’s—for dinner. Marge had taken pity on him after a couple of days and offered to fix his evening meal, but her tofu stew and lentil salad wasn’t a whole lot more palatable than the fried menu at Gus’s. There was a Middle Eastern place, too, but he wasn’t a great fan of that type of cuisine. The dining room in the Oak Hill Inn sounded promising—with a Cordon Bleu chef, no less—but it was only open Thursday through Saturday.

After dinner, he’d been at loose ends. His wanderings had taken him by the Gazette office on a couple of occasions, and in both instances a light had been burning. Abby had still been there. But he was beginning to think that maybe her long hours weren’t so much a reflection of the fact that she was a workaholic as that there wasn’t anything else to do in town.

Once back at the B and B for the night, he’d fallen into the habit of catching a little CNN, then reading books from the inn’s library. He was already halfway through a two-year-old bestseller that he’d always wanted to read but never managed to squeeze into his busy social schedule. He couldn’t wait to get back to Chicago for the weekend.

That was why he’d stayed late today at the newspaper. In order to catch a flight that got him home at a reasonable hour, he needed to leave the Gazette by two o’clock tomorrow for the two-hour drive back to St. Louis. He’d worked through lunch and was now wrapping up at—he consulted his watch again—seven-fifteen.

It wasn’t that he was trying to impress anyone with his conscientiousness. After all, the rest of the staff had left two hours ago. He and Abby were the sole occupants of the office. And he didn’t care what she thought. Putting in a full week just seemed like the right thing to do. Even if he’d never worried about that back in Chicago.

Previously, he’d returned the financial files to Joe for safekeeping. But with the accountant long gone, he’d have to give them to Abby, he realized. And he didn’t think she’d be pleased about that intrusion, not after doing her best to avoid him all week.

For a man who was used to women hovering around him, Abby’s lack of interest was a new experience. Not that he cared, of course. She wasn’t his type.

Exiting the conference room that had become his temporary home, he headed toward Abby’s office, his steps soundless on the worn carpeting. As he approached, he could see from her profile that she was focused on her computer screen. She’d pulled her hair back with some kind of scrunchy elastic thing and, to his surprise, she was wearing glasses.

When he drew closer he noted the slight frown of concentration on her brow as she keyed in words. The remains of a snack-pack of peanut-butter crackers and a half-empty mug of tea, the limp bag beside it sitting in a brown stain on a paper towel, lay on the desk. As he watched, she turned slightly to sift through the chaotic jumble of papers next to her monitor. She retrieved one, scanned it, then lay it aside and went back to typing, reminding Mark of a studious schoolgirl.

It took a discreet tap on her door to catch her attention, and she jumped, gasping as one hand fluttered to her chest. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I stayed late because I have to leave a little early tomorrow to catch my flight to Chicago. Joe’s gone, and I figured you’d want to lock up these financial reports.” He shifted the files in his arms.

“Oh. Yes, thanks. You can leave them here. I’ll put them away when I finish.”

She didn’t ask how things were going, he noted. In all likelihood, she didn’t want to know. He stepped closer and laid the files on her desk. “Dinner?” He nodded to the wrapper on her desk.

“Snack. I’ll eat when I get home.”

“When will that be?” Now why had he asked her that? Her schedule was none of his concern. Nor were her eating habits.

A flicker of surprise sparked in her green eyes. “I’m not sure. We’re losing one of our reporters, and I’m picking up some of the slack.”

For some reason, her comment made him feel guilty. As if it was his presence causing her to work harder than usual and playing havoc with her eating habits. And it wasn’t as if she could afford to lose weight. She was already a bit too thin, in his opinion.

“Well, be sure to eat whenever you get home.”

“I don’t skip meals,” she responded in a careful, measured tone, and he was struck by some emotion in her eyes that he couldn’t quite identify. “I’m very conscientious about that. Have a nice evening.”

With that, she turned back to the computer.

Feeling dismissed, Mark exited. But instead of being irritated by her curt send-off, he was troubled by that look in her eyes. It had almost been resignation. Or weariness. As if she was constantly being reminded to eat. Was there someone in her life who was on her case about her weight? A husband, perhaps?

That thought jolted him. She used her maiden name, but many married women did. Just because she wasn’t his type didn’t mean she wasn’t someone else’s, he mused as he collected his briefcase and headed toward the exit. Maybe he’d make a few discreet inquiries. Motivated by nothing more than idle curiosity, he assured himself.

But that didn’t ring quite true. If he didn’t care whether she was married, how could he explain the shock he’d experienced when the possibility had occurred to him?

Mark didn’t know the answer to that question.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to find it.



Abby typed the last word on the hate-crimes editorial and hit Save. Then she turned her attention to an article about the new, contentious zoning regulation. But it was too late to start such a complicated piece, she decided. Mark’s unexpected visit to her office had reminded her it was well past quitting time. He’d been right; she needed to go home and eat. The feature could wait until tomorrow.

Gathering up the files he’d deposited on her desk, she tucked them in her bottom drawer and locked it. She’d been a bit abrupt with him, but his mere presence unnerved her, she reflected, reminding her that forces beyond her control were at work. Besides, he unnerved her in other ways, as well.

In fairness, however, this situation wasn’t Mark’s fault. He was making a concerted effort to do his job without upsetting the newsroom routine. Plus, instead of slacking off, as she’d expected, he’d been putting in the same hours as everyone else. Joe had had favorable things to say about his financial savvy. Even Molly, who’d looked upon his visit with almost as much trepidation as Abby, had commented that Mark seemed like a pleasant enough fellow.

True, he hadn’t done his homework prior to his arrival. But he’d made up for it since. As she’d passed the break room a couple of days ago she’d overheard him complimenting Steve on a story he’d written a few weeks before—meaning he’d read the back issues she’d given him.

None of which made her feel any better about the whole situation. Her opinion of Mark wasn’t what counted. The only thing that mattered was Mark’s opinion of the Gazette. Her fate—and the fate of the newspaper—rested in his hands.

Under different circumstances Abby supposed she might care a little more about what he thought of her personally. Even if she wasn’t quite sure of his work ethic or his values, she wasn’t immune to his dark good looks. It was always flattering to be noticed by a handsome man. But that was nothing more than wishful thinking. A man like Mark could have his pick of gorgeous women. And gorgeous was never a term that would be applied to her, even on her best days.

That’s why his comments tonight had surprised her. His concern about her long hours and eating habits had seemed genuine. Then again, perhaps he considered remarks like that small talk. In all likelihood, she’d read far more into it than he’d intended. In fact, she hoped she had.

Because if a man like Mark expressed a more personal interest in her, she’d be forced to discourage him. She’d witnessed the complications and heartache that had plagued her parents’ marriage. Watched as her mother battled frustration and depression while her father was consumed by guilt and worry as they’d tried without great success to meld radically different backgrounds.

There was no way she would ever risk stepping onto that minefield.



The numbers didn’t add up.

Mark cast an annoyed glance at his Rolex. In twenty minutes he needed to be out the door, heading back to St. Louis to catch his flight to Chicago. And he didn’t intend to miss it. But something wasn’t right.

During the preliminary review he’d completed in his first few days on the job Mark had red-circled a number of slight discrepancies that he intended to follow up on with Joe next week. But they’d been isolated occurrences. Nothing that had caused great concern.

The aberration in payroll entries was different. It was a pattern. A bit random but a pattern nonetheless. It bothered him enough that he wanted some kind of explanation before he left for the weekend.

Rather than go to Joe’s cubicle, where they’d have no privacy, he punched in the accountant’s extension and asked if the man could join him in the conference room. Two minutes later Joe appeared at the door.

“Sorry to disturb you, but I’m trying to get out of here to catch a flight in St. Louis,” Mark explained. “I ran across something I can’t quite figure out and I hoped you could shed some light on it.”

“Sure.” Closing the door, the man moved into the room and took a seat beside Mark.

Mark spread the sheets out in front of Joe. “It appears that there’s an irregularity in the payroll entries. I haven’t gone into the detail journal yet—that’s on my agenda for next week—but this was too troublesome to leave until then. It’s always for the same amount—” Mark circled a number on the pad where he’d been doodling “—and it’s happened on a number of occasions over the past year. Can you explain it?”

The man shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. When he replied, his tone was cautious. “I’m aware of the discrepancy. But it might be better if you talk with Abby about it.”

“Okay.” A beat of silence passed as Mark regarded the man. “I can do that if you’d rather not discuss it.”

“Look, I’m not trying to be uncooperative. It’s just that…I think she’s in a better position to explain the situation. It’s nothing illegal. You’ll see that when you check the detail journal.”

Instead of replying, Mark gathered up the spreadsheets and slipped them into a file. It was obvious that he wasn’t going to get much out of the Gazette’s accountant. And he didn’t want to miss his plane. But now he was more curious than ever. If no impropriety was involved, why was the man uncomfortable?

“I’ll stop in and see Abby on my way out.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help with this.”

“No problem. You pointed me in the right direction.”

As Joe left the room, Mark switched off his computer, double-checked his flight time, then stood and strode toward Abby’s office, file in hand. She was on the phone when he appeared at her door, but she motioned him in.

“Okay. Thanks, Dale. Talk to you soon.” Abby replaced the receiver and looked up at Mark. “Heading out?”

“In a few minutes. But I found something a bit odd in the books, and when I asked Joe about it he referred me to you.”

“What is it?”

Mark withdrew the spreadsheets from the file and pointed out the payroll entries. “There’s a discrepancy of exactly the same amount on these particular weeks.”

After a quick glance at the reports, Abby looked back at Mark. “Have you checked the detail journal?”

“Not yet. That’s on the agenda for next week.”

She could stall, but it would be a useless delay tactic, Abby decided. She and Joe had figured Mark would uncover the inconsistency at some point, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t pursue it since it helped—rather than hurt—the Gazette. Instead he’d homed in on it faster than either had anticipated. And it was clear he wasn’t going to let it pass. Since she’d have to clarify it sooner or later, there was no sense delaying the inevitable.

“There’s a very simple explanation. The Gazette often operates on a razor-thin margin. If you haven’t already discovered that, you will when you examine the detail journal. In the weeks you’ve highlighted, our operating funds were so low that some expenses would have gone unpaid. To help us through the crunch, I instructed Joe not to issue me a paycheck those weeks. That accounts for the discrepancy you discovered.”

A full five seconds of silence ticked by. “Let me get this straight. You funneled your paycheck back into operating expenses?”

“Look, I know it’s unconventional, but it’s not illegal.” Mark was looking at her as if she had three heads, and a hot flush began to creep up her neck. “The paper needed the money more than I did at certain points. I just trusted that the Lord would see me through, and He did.”

For several moments Mark stared at the woman sitting behind the scarred desk that represented her family legacy. A legacy she’d worked hard to protect—even to the point of denying herself living expenses. Mark tried to think of one such example of selflessness and of faith in his circle of friends and came up empty.

But he did have some examples closer to home. His brother, who’d bypassed a high salary at Campbell Publishing for a far-lesser-paying job managing a Christian bookstore chain. And his father, who’d gambled everything to launch his company because he’d passionately believed in his dream and was willing to put his trust in the Lord.

Bobby Mitchell came to mind, too, for the second time in the past couple of weeks. His friend had given up the immediate pleasures that might have been afforded by his allowance and funneled almost every penny into his passion—his space fund, earmarked for a trip to space camp at the U.S. Space & Rocket Center. And up to the end he—like Abby—had believed that God was by his side.

His estimation of the woman across from him edged up another notch.

He looked again at the figure he’d circled on the paper he’d put in front of Abby, and all at once the amount registered, disconcerting him further. That was her weekly salary, he realized. And it was less than what they paid the receptionist at Campbell Publishing! Was this an indication of the salaries in general at the Gazette? But no. He’d seen the salary budget total. He knew how many people worked there. He could do the division. Other staff members were making more than Abby.

This was getting more confusing by the minute.

“Okay, let’s back up. I’ve seen the salary budget and this isn’t adding up. Why is yours so low? You’re the managing editor.”

Her flush deepened. She felt like an ant under a microscope as he loomed over her, so she stood and faced him across the work-worn desk. Even then, he had a distinct height advantage. “I’m not in this for the money. I never have been.” Her tone was quiet but resolute. “I lead a simple life and my wants are few. I care a lot about the Gazette and I don’t mind making a few sacrifices to keep it going.”

Shaking his head, Mark raked his fingers through his hair. “I appreciate your dedication, Abby, but it’s just a job. You deserve a living wage.”

A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. “It’s not just a job! I know what’s gone into building this paper. The sacrifices, the passion, the determination, the courage. It’s important work that makes a difference. We’ve won lots of awards, and those are great. But look around this office at the letters from readers. Like that one behind you. That’s what makes this job important.”

Now that she’d called them to his attention, the dozen or so framed letters on the walls registered. Turning, he scanned the one over his shoulder, noting in his peripheral vision a photo of a dark-haired minister on a tiny table in the corner. Forcing himself to focus on the letter, he realized that it was a thank-you note of some sort.

“That letter is from a man we featured in a story about prescription drug costs and government assistance. You can do a story like that and just quote statistics. A lot of papers do. But we put a face on the numbers.” Abby’s voice rang with passion and conviction. “Jon Borcic is seventy-six years old. He was eligible for state assistance with prescriptions, but when his request got bogged down in red tape he went without food to buy his wife medicine. Thanks to that article, the agency cleaned up its act. And people like Jon don’t have to go hungry anymore in order to care for the ones they love.”

Her voice choked, and she stopped long enough to take a deep breath. “So, no, Mark, this isn’t just a job. That’s why I do everything I can to keep the paper going. Including passing up a paycheck once in a while.”

Once again, Mark found himself speechless in the presence of the petite dynamo across from him. And thinking how unfair it was that Abby had to carry the full weight of such a burden on her slight shoulders. He’d made a few discreet inquiries and he knew she wasn’t married. But the minister in the photo he’d just noticed must be important to her. Why didn’t he help? His gaze flickered to the framed image.

“My brother. And ministry pays even less than journalism.”

As she answered his unspoken question, he shifted his attention back to her. Now he could add mind reading to her many talents.





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