A Dream To Share (Heartland Homecoming) Read online

  “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?�
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  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?