Lord knew she didn’t need to set herself up for any more disappointments in her life.
The newspaper office was located along South Main, just a few blocks from Town Square. It wasn’t a big building, but then again, the Thunder Canyon Nugget was only a weekly.
Mark had come by twice before, not long after he’d arrived in town. But the publisher and editor, Roy Canfield, had an Out To Lunch sign on the door. And the sign had remained there all afternoon.
But today Mark was in luck—no sign and the door of the white-stucco building was unlocked.
He entered the small front office and caught the heady scent of newsprint and ink.
A heavyset, salt-and-pepper-haired man in a tweed sports jacket sat at a desk near a door leading to the back. His leather desk chair squeaked as he turned from his work. “Can I help you?”
“My name’s Mark Anderson. I’m with Golden Eagle News Service. Are you Mr. Canfield?”
“Yes, siree.” The sixty-something man stood and reached out a hand in greeting. “But call me Roy.”
They shook hands, and Mark cut to the chase. “I read your latest editorial. In fact, I was a bit surprised that it was so well-written and thought-provoking.”
“Because you agree with me? Or because the Nugget is just a weekly?” Roy crossed his arms above an ample belly, but his smile indicated he hadn’t found the comment offensive.
Mark returned his smile. “Actually, I disagreed with you. And I plan to write a letter in rebuttal.”
“Good!” Roy stood as tall as his five-and-a-half foot frame would allow, putting quite a strain on his red suspenders. “I’m always up for a heated debate.”
Mark smiled. “I must admit the issue I read was better than I expected.”
“I bought the Nugget two years ago, after I retired from a big-city press. And I’ve tried to make it a quality newspaper while maintaining the small-town appeal.”
“You’ve done a good job. I expected to see something about a two-headed cow or a fifty-pound rutabaga.”
“That’s what I’ve tried to get away from ever since I bought this rag.” Roy’s blue eyes glistened. “It’s not always easy to find real news in a small town. Do you know what the last editor ran on the front page the day before I took the helm?”
Mark shook his head. “Hard telling.”
Roy chuckled, his belly shaking with mirth. “Elmer Godwin, who was suffering from a godawful case of gout, got drunk and, in his frustration over the pain, tried to cut off his big toe and damn near bled to death.”
A wry smile tugged at Mark’s lips. “Sorry I missed that issue.”
“Bet Golden Eagle would have paid you plenty for a newsflash like that.” Roy indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Why don’t you take a seat? It isn’t often we get a hotshot reporter from the city in town.”
There was something about Roy Canfield that Mark liked, that he could relate to, although he sure as hell didn’t know what it was. The fact that they were both journalists, he supposed.
“I’ve been sent to write a big spread on the gold rush,” Mark told the older man. “But I doubt there’s anything worthy of a story.”
“You gotta believe, son.” Canfield’s blue eyes sparkled.
“Come on, Roy.” Mark took the seat across from the heavyset older man. “The fortune hunters are spitting into the wind.”
“What about those two brothers who found themselves a couple of good-size nuggets yesterday?”
“You mean the two guys who celebrated at The Hitching Post and ended up at the E.R. getting stitches in one of their hands?” Mark clucked his tongue. “Sure, there might be a few nuggets out there. But the real story lies in the broken dreams of those foolish enough to sell their homes and buy prospecting gear, especially when they don’t know squat about mining gold.”
“You know who Caleb Douglas is?” Canfield asked.
“Yeah. He’s a wealthy businessman and cattle baron who’s developing that new ski resort.”
Canfield nodded. “And right now, the man is more interested in finding the deed to the Queen of Hearts mine.”
“I’d heard he was still having trouble locating the deed. Are you saying he’s caught gold fever?”
“For years, that boarded up mine was considered worthless, except as a piece of real estate. And more recently, as you probably know, Caleb has been focused on that fancy new ski resort and the groundbreaking ceremony next month. But that’s not the case anymore.” Canfield leaned back in his chair, leather creaking and wood squeaking as he rocked. “When a couple of squatters began to hunt for gold on Caleb’s property, he was concerned about liability, more than anything else. After all, enough of those foolish gold hunters have already ended up at the Thunder Canyon E.R. So he posted No Trespassing signs.”
“Makes sense. Besides, any gold on the property belongs to him.”
“But now, Caleb realizes that just because the Queen of Hearts played out years ago doesn’t mean there’s not a new vein.”
“Okay,” Mark said. “Let’s say there is still gold in the Queen of Hearts. How’s that going to help all those prospectors combing the hills?”
“It won’t. But that’s not where your story is, son.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, a squatter challenged Caleb, spouting rumors about mine ownership and questioning who actually had the legal right to run off anyone from the property.” Roy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “If you’ve kept your ears open, you know there are a lot of rumors about how old Amos Douglas won the Queen of Hearts in a poker game a century or more ago. And there’s a lesser known story that some prospector won it back.”
“I went to high school in Thunder Canyon, even though I haven’t been back in twenty years. So I’m familiar with the rumors. You think there’s anything to them?”
Roy shrugged, reached for a pencil and twiddled it through his fingers. “Who knows? Caleb hadn’t been able to find the deed before, thinking it just wasn’t handy. But since then, he began to hunt diligently, and so far, he’s come up empty-handed.”
“How about a title search down at the courthouse?”
“He’s having trouble with that, too. Especially with Harvey Watson out of town on vacation.”
Watson, Mark realized, was the clerk who was trying to computerize the old ledgers.
The semiretired journalist chuckled. “You look bumfuzzled. If I were still at the Tribune, I’d probably scoop you on this one. But I’m not.”
“What are you thinking?” Mark asked, finding himself interested in the old man’s take on the situation.
“If Caleb can’t find the deed, it makes me think at least one of those old rumors must be true. That Amos sold off the property, thinking it was worthless. Or that he lost it in a card game. Or that it was stolen out from under his nose.” The editor grinned like a cat in an aviary. “And that’s where your story is, son.”
Mark pondered what the older man had said. And he found his interest stimulated. Maybe Canfield was right. Maybe Caleb Douglas didn’t own the property. And if there was a new vein, someone else stood to profit. Someone who might not realize it.
“Well,” Roy said, getting to his feet. “I hate to rush you. But I’ve got to run home and eat lunch. My wife has been on my case. She hates every minute I spend down here, although I think she’s