Every Perfect Gift

ACCLAIM FOR DOROTHY LOVE

"Dorothy Love effortlessly brings to life the setting and characters of Every Perfect Gift so that you’ll feel right at home in Hickory Ridge. The love story is sweet and woven amidst secrets of the past that explore the various facets of prejudice. At the last page, you’ll breathe a contented sigh and wish you didn’t have to leave behind characters who feel like friends."

—JODY HEDLUND, BEST-SELLING

AUTHOR OF THE PREACHER’S BRIDE

"Beauty for Ashes is a touching story about finding joy and healing in the midst of heartache. Set in the small town of Hickory Ridge, Dorothy Love takes readers on a beautifully written journey into the heart of the South during the years that followed the Civil War. As her characters search for healing, they must choose to either cling to the past or trade the bitterness in their hearts for love."

—MELANIE DOBSON, AWARD-WINNING

AUTHOR OF THE SILENT ORDER AND

LOVE FINDS YOU IN LIBERTY, INDIANA

Dorothy Love paints a vivid picture of the post–Civil War south [and] the need to rebuild hope. And she does it beautifully . . .

—CATHY GOHLKE, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF

PROMISE ME THIS, REGARDING BEAUTY FOR ASHES

You’ll adore this book from beginning to end. The story will capture your heart from the first line.

—ROMANTIC TIMES, 4½ STAR

REVIEW OF BEYOND ALL MEASURE

With well-drawn characters and just enough suspense to keep the pages turning, this winning debut will be a hit with fans of Gilbert Morris and Lauraine Snelling.

—LIBRARY JOURNAL STARRED

REVIEW OF BEYOND ALL MEASURE

"Beautifully written and with descriptions so rich I’m still certain I caught a whiff of magnolia blossoms as I read. Beyond All Measure is pure Southern delight! Dorothy Love weaves a stirring romance that’s both gloriously detailed with Tennessee history and that uplifts and inspires the heart."

—TAMERA ALEXANDER, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR

OF THE INHERITANCE AND WITHIN MY HEART

"Soft as a breeze from the Old South and as gentle as the haze hovering over the Great Smokies, the gifted flow of Dorothy Love’s pen casts a spell of love, hate and hope in post–Civil War Tennessee. With rich, fluid prose, characters who breathe onto the page and a wealth of historical imagery, Beyond All Measure will steal both your heart and your sleep well beyond the last page."

—JULIE LESSMAN, BEST-SELLING

AUTHOR OF A HOPE UNDAUNTED

"Find a porch swing, pour yourself a tall glass of lemonade: [Beyond All Measure] is the perfect summer read!"

—SIRI MITCHELL, AUTHOR

OF A HEART MOST WORTHY

Dorothy Love captures all the romance, charm and uncertainties of the postbellum South, delighting readers with her endearing characters, historical details and vivid writing style.

—MARGARET BROWNLEY, AUTHOR

OF A LADY LIKE SARAH, REGARDING

BEYOND ALL MEASURE

EVERY PERFECT GIFT

ALSO BY DOROTHY LOVE

Beyond All Measure

Beauty for Ashes

EVERY PERFECT GIFT

A HICKORY RIDGE ROMANCE

DOROTHY LOVE

 © 2012 by Dorothy Love

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Versification of Psalm 23 in chapter 5 is by the author. Hymn verse quoted in chapter 12 is from Heavenly Father, Bless Me Now, words by Alexander Clark (1834–1879). Hymn verses quoted in chapter 33 are from In the Bleak Midwinter, words by Christina Rossetti (1872), and We Plow the Fields, words by Matthias Claudius (1782), translated by Jane M. Campbell (1861).

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Love, Dorothy, 1949-

Every perfect gift / Dorothy Love.

p. cm. -- (A Hickory Ridge romance ; 3)

Summary: Ethan and Sophie long to share a future together. But the secrets they’re not sharing could tear them apart. Sophie Caldwell has returned to Hickory Ridge, Tennessee after years away. Despite the heartaches of her childhood, Sophie is determined to make a home, and a name, for herself in the growing town. A gifted writer, she plans to resurrect the local newspaper that so enchanted her as a girl. Ethan Heyward’s idyllic childhood was shattered by a tragedy he has spent years trying to forget. An accomplished businessman and architect, he has built a majestic resort in the mountains above Hickory Ridge, drawing wealthy tourists from all over the country. When Sophie interviews Ethan for the paper, he is impressed with her intelligence and astounded by her beauty. She’s equally intrigued with him but fears he will reject her if he learns about her shadowed past. Just as she summons the courage to tell him, Ethan’s own past unexpectedly and violently catches up with him, threatening not only his life but their budding romance-- Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-1-59554-902-0 (pbk.)

1. Women journalists--Fiction. 2. Architects--Fiction. 3. Tennessee--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3562.O8387E94 2012

813’.54--dc23

2012032476

Printed in the United States of America

12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

In memory of my brother, Lowell Dean Catlett

July 16, 1951–April 10, 2012

His life was a gift to all who knew him.

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above,

and cometh down from the Father of lights,

with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

JAMES 1:17

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

READING GROUP GUIDE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ONE

HICKORY RIDGE

April 1886

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 bought a copy of the Chattanooga Times that carried a photograph of the balding and rotund Mr. Blakely. No doubt Mr. Heyward looked about the same. Birds of a feather flocked together, didn’t they? Especially wealthy birds. And Mr. Heyward surely must be rich as Croesus to build such a palatial hotel. The Times article said Blue Smoke was meant to rival the Greenbrier, the plush West Virginia resort that attracted wealthy guests from all over the country.

After scrubbing the baseboards and windowsills and dusting the desk and the chair, Sophie straightened the picture on the wall behind the desk, a fanciful painting of ladies at tea on a calm lake. For a moment she stood still, drinking in its quiet beauty.

Hello? Anyone here? A slender young woman, her white-blond hair woven into a thick plait down her back, peered through the open doorway, looking for all the world like a water sprite in Sophie’s favorite childhood storybook.

Sophie looked up. May I help you?

The water sprite stepped inside, holding a thin brown envelope sealed with a blob of blue wax. Miss Caldwell?

Yes, but please call me Sophie. She pulled her sleeves down, buttoned her cuffs, and set aside her cleaning rag. What can I do for you?

You probably don’t remember me. I’m a few years older than you. The woman leaned one hip on the corner of the desk. But I remember you. It caused quite a stir in Hickory Ridge when Wyatt Caldwell and his Boston bride lit out for Texas and took you with them. Jasper Pruitt still marvels at it.

A mental picture of the hard-eyed mercantile owner rose in Sophie’s mind. Had the intervening years softened his opinion of those who were different? Perhaps that was too much to hope for. I’m sorry. I don’t . . . I didn’t have a chance to make many friends when I lived at Mrs. Lowell’s orphanage.

I’m Sabrina Gilman. But I much prefer to be called Gillie. My father owns the bank. She handed Sophie the envelope. Your deposit receipt. Father said you left it in his office yesterday.

So I did. Sophie smiled and dropped the envelope into the top drawer of her desk. I was so eager to get settled and get over here to take a look at things that I forgot all about it. She studied her visitor. I do remember you, though. You and Jacob Hargrove played Mary and Joseph at the Christmas pageant the year Mrs. Lowell brought us to church to sing carols. You aren’t that much older than I am.

Twenty-eight as of last week. Gillie sighed. Well past my prime for marriage, according to Mother and her friends.

I thought you and Jacob—

He left Hickory Ridge a couple of years after you and the Caldwells. Gillie shrugged. I can’t blame him. There was no work here for years. He finally got a job at a factory up north and married someone else.

I’m sorry.

Gillie laughed. Well, I’m not! It was only a childhood flirtation. Though I will admit, for a while I was in such a state that Father sought Dr. Spencer’s help in sorting me out. She traced a scar on the wood desk with her fingers. At first I couldn’t imagine any other life than the one I’d dreamed of with Jacob. Watching our children grow up on our farm. Watching the seasons change. Growing old and wrinkled together. She sent Sophie a rueful smile. Sentimental beyond all words, I know, but that’s what I thought I was meant to do. God had other plans, though.

Sophie nodded. She had been visiting Ada Wentworth the day Robbie Whiting’s father rode in to report that Wyatt Caldwell was taking the next train to Texas. That was the day Ada put her trust in God’s plans and changed all their lives.

I’m devoting my life to helping the sick, Gillie said. It’s my true calling. And I owe it all to a . . . woman of loose morals.

A . . . Sophie wasn’t a prude, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak a word polite ladies only hinted at.

Exactly. Gillie bobbed her head. Annie Cook. She owned a house of ill repute in Memphis. A very nice one, so they say. When the yellow fever epidemic broke out several years back, people left town like rats leaving a sinking ship, but she stayed and turned her place into a hospital. She took care of the sick folks till she herself died of the fever. It was in all the papers. Gillie looked up, her face full of light. If that doesn’t prove that God can use anybody for the good, I do not know what does. Annie Cook gave her life for other people.

Sophie made a mental note to look into Miss Cook’s story. It might make an inspiring piece for the paper one day. I hope you won’t be called upon to go that far.

So far my career has consisted mostly of tending colicky babies and patching up farming injuries. But Doc Spencer is teaching me to deliver babies. At nursing school we weren’t allowed to attend a mother on our own.

Outside, the train whistle shrieked. Gillie shot to her feet. My goodness—noon already. I didn’t intend to take so much of your time.

That’s all right. Truthfully, I’m glad for your company. I’m afraid I don’t have friends here. Except for Robbie Whiting, I never did.

Their loss. Gillie’s voice was warm with welcome. But you’ve got one now.

Sophie returned Gillie’s smile. How wonderful it would be to have someone near her own age to laugh with and confide in. I hope so. Thanks for bringing my bank receipt.

No trouble. Gillie waved one dainty hand and headed for the door. I’ll see you later.

Sophie emptied the dirty water from her cleaning bucket and draped the rag over the windowsill to dry, then headed for the hotel to freshen up before her trip up the mountain to Blue Smoke. Despite her education and practical experience contributing stories to the Galveston News and the Oklahoma Star, the mere thought of interviewing someone as powerful as Mr. Heyward made her stomach tight with nerves.

If she made a mess of this first real interview, folks would talk, as they always did in small Southern towns. If that happened, nobody would take her or her newspaper seriously. More than anything, she wanted her newspaper to succeed—to prove to the Caldwells that their faith in her was justified and to secure her future. She couldn’t depend upon Wyatt Caldwell forever. He and Ada had their own children, Wade and Lilly, to consider.

The hotel parlor was quiet. A mother cradling a sleeping infant sat in the wing chair beside the window and gazed onto the busy street. Two salesmen in wool suits and bowler hats occupied the settee. Sophie retrieved her key from the room clerk and climbed the creaking stairs to her room. She changed into her best dress, a dark green frock with lace collar and cuffs, and picked up the new spring hat Ada had made for her. The jaunty little toque, adorned with netting and a single white silk flower, complemented her creamy skin and gray-green eyes.

She studied her reflection in the mottled mirror above the washstand and fought the fresh wave of apprehension moving through her. Despite her fair skin and straight hair, rumors that at least one of her parents carried African blood had marked her childhood and set her apart. Suppose she encountered the same thing now?

Back home in Texas, among Mexican vaqueros who worked Wyatt’s ranch, hundreds of German and Czech immigrants, and African sugar plantation workers who sailed to Galveston to begin a new life, it had been easy to avoid questions about her family. Living with the Caldwells, moving through the world under their protection, had given her entrée into the finest homes and schools in Texas. Even so, without a blood family and a history to anchor her, she hadn’t fit in with most of the other girls at Miss Halliday’s School for Young Ladies. As much as she’d loved learning, graduating and starting her work in Dallas had come as an enormous relief.

She secured her hat with a pearl hatpin and brushed at a smudge of dirt on her nose. Maybe Wyatt was right and it was a mistake to come back to a place where some people—Mr. Pruitt at the mercantile, for instance—would remember the old gossip, and the hurt and rejection might well catch up with her again.

Fighting a wave of homesickness for Texas and the Caldwells, she gathered her bag, her notebook, and her pens and hurried from the inn to Mr. Tanner’s livery. No sense in borrowing trouble. She’d made her choice. And the venerable Mr. Heyward must not be kept waiting.

TWO

Mr. Heyward? Tim O’Brien, the lanky, red-haired young Irishman Ethan had lured away from Gilman’s bank with the promise of higher wages and shorter hours, stuck his head into the room. That newspaper reporter is here.

Ethan set aside the payroll ledger he’d been perusing and glanced at the leather-bound appointment calendar lying open on his desk. He’d nearly forgotten his promise to give the reporter a tour of the facilities. Normally he enjoyed showing visitors around the marvel that was Blue Smoke, but today he was preoccupied with half a dozen headaches—delayed deliveries, absentee workers he’d been counting on to finish the flooring in the ballroom, and rumors of growing unrest among Negro workers and the Irish boys he’d imported from back east. Besides, the way he understood it, the Gazette was not actually in operation yet. It was only someone’s dream—the way Blue Smoke was his.

Still, once the resort opened, he’d need the newspaper, not only to keep people apprised of goings-on atop the mountain, but to act as a jobber for printing stationery, menus, guest cards, and daily activity sheets. If an afternoon with the reporter would put the resort into the good graces of the paper’s owner, perhaps he could negotiate more favorable terms when the time came.

And, Mr. Heyward? Just a word of warning, sir. Mr. Blakely arrives tomorrow afternoon. The secretary waved a telegram in the air. It says here he’ll be wanting another powwow with you about the delay on the passenger car.

Ethan heaved a sigh, unrolled his sleeves, and slipped into his gray wool jacket. One problem at a time, Tim. Show Mr. Caldwell in.

"’Tisn’t a Mr. Caldwell, sir. She’s a girl. The secretary grinned. Pretty one too."

Ethan frowned. Show her in.

He was prepared to be annoyed at having been misled, but one look at the young woman who stood framed in his doorway dispelled that thought. The only word that came to mind was breathtaking. He took her in—creamy skin, high cheekbones, eyes the most unusual shade of green. Glossy black hair tucked neatly into a stylish hat. A willowy figure. In the golden light coming through the Palladian windows, she reminded him of the portrait of his mother that had once graced his boyhood home.

Mr. Heyward? She crossed the carpet and inclined her head, a smile playing on her lips. I’m—

He bowed slightly. S. R. Caldwell.

A faint blush crept into her cheeks. Yes. Thank you for seeing me. I’m looking forward to touring the resort. The entrance is quite grand.

Isn’t it? The doors came from an abandoned castle in Scotland. My partner—

Excuse me. S. R. Caldwell opened her bag and took out a notebook and pen. Your partner—that would be Mr. Blakely? Mr. Horace Blakely?

That’s right. He waited while she scribbled, fascinated at the way her slender fingers gripped the steel pen.

She smiled up at him, her green eyes sparkling. His heart lurched. He lost his train of thought.

She flipped to a clean sheet in her small notebook. Please continue, Mr. Heyward.

He cleared his throat. Where was I? Oh yes, the doors. Horace—Mr. Blakely—happened upon the ruin during a tramping excursion and tracked down the owner, who was only too glad to sell the entire edifice for a song. We managed to salvage many of the old stones, some of the timbers, and that magnificent set of doors. As best we can tell, they date from the fifteenth century.

He watched her scribble some more. "Miss Caldwell, would you care for tea before we begin our tour? And perhaps your driver would like some too. The wind