A Dream To Share
Irene Hannon

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.