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Authors: Allie Pleiter
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sympathy. “I own the paper, Peach. And I edit all my writers. Why should you be any different?”
It stung beyond her ability to describe. He would never see the enormity of what he had done. Why had she expected to be exempt from Stuart’s legendary meddling?
“Because I am different,” she retorted, wishing she had a more clever argument. “You added to my story. Something silly that shouldn’t ever have been in there.”
“ Embellished. I embellished. It needed something to lighten up all that drama. Really. Carrying a Bible over his heart? With a knife mark in it? It was too much. You should be glad I didn’t cut that part out altogether. I had to give the readers something a little more real. And you hadn’t given him a calling card yet.”
“A what?”
“A calling card. A sign that the Black Bandit had been there. It’s in every good story, like a signature. Terribly dramatic. People will love it.”
“A white ribbon nailed to a tree?” In Stuart’s version, the Bandit had left a white ribbon nailed to the tree above the villain’s head. Georgia found it ridiculous. As if her mysterious hero was wandering the streets of San Francisco with ribbon and tacks in his pocket like a hatmaker.
“Well, black seemed too morbid. It’s a delicious irony, the Black Bandit leaving a white ribbon. I thought you’d appreciate that.”
She appreciated nothing of the sort. “You could have asked.” Georgia had taken this astounding risk, reached for this impossible dream, and he’d run over her. Like he ran over everyone. Lord, how could You let this happen? I was so certain this came from You. And now…
“Trust me. It’ll run like wildfire.” His condescending tone sliced at her—not because he was being deliberately cruel, but because he truly had no idea how much he’d hurt her. “You’ll see,” he said, returning his eyes to his work. “I’m very good at what I do.”
Yes, Stuart, you’re very good at what you do. She stood planted in the doorway, paralyzed with frustration at not being able to tell him how she really felt.
But would that change anything? Stuart would not suddenly soften his tactics because she had been the target this time. The paper was out. The calling card had been added. Her hero had been tainted by her brother’s never-ending exploitation of everything he touched. Why had she expected better of him?
“You could have asked me to add a calling card of my own design,” she said after a long pause, disgusted with the weakness of her voice.
“I don’t ask,” Stuart declared, obviously finding her suggestion ridiculous. “Not anyone. Not even you.”
Matthew stared at the six columns before him, absent-mindedly feeling for the bandage knotted under his shirtsleeve. He kept seeing the face of Georgia Waterhouse, her pale lashes resting against alabaster cheeks, her head tilted against the sturdy back of the chair, her creamy fist still clenched around the handkerchief. It was absurd that he found her so stunning in a dead faint. One does not, after all, look one’s best when keeling over. She had “fainted in his best interest,” as he’d put it when he recounted the entire morning’s events to an astounded Thompson—yes, visibly astounded, and that was worth something! The whole incident endeared Miss Waterhouse to him.
Matthew did omit one detail to Thompson. He found he did not want to speak of the small, battle-sliced Bible that the reverend had handed him with such unsettling reverence. At first, Matthew thought his reluctance to accept the token was born of the clergyman’s great affection for it—he’d not merited so dear a gift from someone he’d just met. As he carried it home, he realized that the reluctance came from the feeling that he was standing on a very slippery slope. Had things not come to such dire ends with the whip, Matthew confessed he more than once thought to hide the Bible under his blankets.
When he opened the morning
It stung beyond her ability to describe. He would never see the enormity of what he had done. Why had she expected to be exempt from Stuart’s legendary meddling?
“Because I am different,” she retorted, wishing she had a more clever argument. “You added to my story. Something silly that shouldn’t ever have been in there.”
“ Embellished. I embellished. It needed something to lighten up all that drama. Really. Carrying a Bible over his heart? With a knife mark in it? It was too much. You should be glad I didn’t cut that part out altogether. I had to give the readers something a little more real. And you hadn’t given him a calling card yet.”
“A what?”
“A calling card. A sign that the Black Bandit had been there. It’s in every good story, like a signature. Terribly dramatic. People will love it.”
“A white ribbon nailed to a tree?” In Stuart’s version, the Bandit had left a white ribbon nailed to the tree above the villain’s head. Georgia found it ridiculous. As if her mysterious hero was wandering the streets of San Francisco with ribbon and tacks in his pocket like a hatmaker.
“Well, black seemed too morbid. It’s a delicious irony, the Black Bandit leaving a white ribbon. I thought you’d appreciate that.”
She appreciated nothing of the sort. “You could have asked.” Georgia had taken this astounding risk, reached for this impossible dream, and he’d run over her. Like he ran over everyone. Lord, how could You let this happen? I was so certain this came from You. And now…
“Trust me. It’ll run like wildfire.” His condescending tone sliced at her—not because he was being deliberately cruel, but because he truly had no idea how much he’d hurt her. “You’ll see,” he said, returning his eyes to his work. “I’m very good at what I do.”
Yes, Stuart, you’re very good at what you do. She stood planted in the doorway, paralyzed with frustration at not being able to tell him how she really felt.
But would that change anything? Stuart would not suddenly soften his tactics because she had been the target this time. The paper was out. The calling card had been added. Her hero had been tainted by her brother’s never-ending exploitation of everything he touched. Why had she expected better of him?
“You could have asked me to add a calling card of my own design,” she said after a long pause, disgusted with the weakness of her voice.
“I don’t ask,” Stuart declared, obviously finding her suggestion ridiculous. “Not anyone. Not even you.”
Matthew stared at the six columns before him, absent-mindedly feeling for the bandage knotted under his shirtsleeve. He kept seeing the face of Georgia Waterhouse, her pale lashes resting against alabaster cheeks, her head tilted against the sturdy back of the chair, her creamy fist still clenched around the handkerchief. It was absurd that he found her so stunning in a dead faint. One does not, after all, look one’s best when keeling over. She had “fainted in his best interest,” as he’d put it when he recounted the entire morning’s events to an astounded Thompson—yes, visibly astounded, and that was worth something! The whole incident endeared Miss Waterhouse to him.
Matthew did omit one detail to Thompson. He found he did not want to speak of the small, battle-sliced Bible that the reverend had handed him with such unsettling reverence. At first, Matthew thought his reluctance to accept the token was born of the clergyman’s great affection for it—he’d not merited so dear a gift from someone he’d just met. As he carried it home, he realized that the reluctance came from the feeling that he was standing on a very slippery slope. Had things not come to such dire ends with the whip, Matthew confessed he more than once thought to hide the Bible under his blankets.
When he opened the morning
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