Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Read online

  Wendell Goldberg’s hunches were right. Easterners would pay an exorbitant amount of money to vacation here—if they could be afforded the same luxuries they enjoyed at home. Which, right now, was certainly not the case. But it soon would be once Chilton Enterprises constructed their new hotel.

  “Why didn’t you tell me there was a waterfall near here, Josiah?”

  He dropped the folded canvas tent on the ground and looked at her as though she were daft. “Cuz you didn’t ask me.”

  She dismissed his response with a smile. She hadn’t confided in him about her association with the Chronicle for the same reason she hadn’t told anyone else in Timber Ridge. All he knew was that she wanted to take pictures of nature, and he’d already agreed to accompany her on her expedition south to the cliff dwellings.

  “Well, from now on, if there’s a waterfall or hot spring or . . . anything like that within view of where we’re standing, would you please tell me about it?”

  Again, that look. “Yes, ma’am. I can do that.” He went back to work. “ ’Course, I guess I’m wonderin’ why you can’t just see it for yourself with your own eyes. God gave you two good ones, and it makes sense to me that . . .”

  Ignoring his muttering, Elizabeth knelt and untied the straps to her shoulder pack and withdrew her camera, followed by glass plates cocooned in fabric and an assortment of bottles, each wrapped separately to prevent breakage. A glance confirmed that Josiah would soon have her dark tent set up and her supplies arranged inside. As expected from his previous routine, he’d pitched the tent as far away from the edge of the mountainside as possible, and on the most level patch of ground.

  She readied one of the camera plates for exposure, cleaning the glass with a mixture of pumice and alcohol. She poured collodion onto the readied surface, tilted the plate at various angles until the entire area was coated with the transparent solution, drained the excess back into the container, and reached for a cloth.

  Collodion stuck to nearly everything. She doubted whether she possessed a skirt, shirtwaist, or outer coat that didn’t bear stains from the various chemicals used in her trade—a fact that irritated her father something fierce, fastidious as he’d once been with his blue woolen uniform and still was with his jacket and trousers for Senate meetings.

  “It’s all ready for you, Miz Westbrook.”

  Josiah lifted the front flap of the tent, and she crawled through the opening, wet camera plate in hand. A candle flickered burnished yellow in the darkness.

  On her knees in the familiar half glow, Elizabeth dipped the plate, now tacky to the touch, into a light-sensitizing bath Josiah had prepared as she’d taught him. Twelve parts water to one part silver nitrate. Minutes later, once the surface of the glass was uniform and creamy white in color, she removed it from the bath, wiped the back of it with a clean cloth, and slid it into a lightproof wooden holder.

  She emerged from the dark tent with the prepared plate, careful not to trip on the bulk of her skirt and coat.

  Josiah had mounted the camera on its mahogany tripod. She rested the plate holder on a cloth on the ground and bent at the waist to view the upside-down scene through the glass viewer. No matter how many times she’d done this, capturing a slice of time on a piece of glass so that people far away could appreciate beauty they’d never seen always gave her a thrill.

  She straightened and gestured to the tripod. “You chose the placement well, Josiah. Your efficiency at learning the camera’s angle is commendable.” She leveled her gaze, careful to keep her smile in check. “Even if your social skills leave something to be desired.”

  He laughed softly, the sound of it pure enjoyment to listen to. “I thank you, ma’am, for that kind word. And I be doin’ my best to work on the other. No doubt, given time, you’ll teach me right.” He dipped his head, not meeting her eyes straight on.

  In that split second, Elizabeth caught a fleeting glimpse of Josiah’s former station in life, or what she imagined it might have been like from the little he’d shared with her. He was more astute than any assistant she’d worked with back in Washington, and he possessed a subtlety of humor she admired. In her line of work, she often rubbed shoulders with such jesting from male colleagues, and whether Josiah knew it or not, his quick wit was serving to sharpen her own.

  She’d never had a brother, or a sister for that matter, but if she’d had siblings, she imagined her relationship with an older brother might have been somewhat like hers with Josiah Birch, even in the short time they’d known each other. She guessed him to be roughly ten years her senior, though it was hard to tell. Thick muscle, similar to that of a younger man, layered his body. But within his expression lay a depth of emotion that bespoke age and experience beyond his physical years. And if the weathered wrinkles and shadows were telling, she read that the whole of his life had not been kind.

  She bent to study the camera’s perspective one last time. This was one view that never lied. It always mirrored exactly what was seen, albeit in reverse. And the upside-downness seemed to bring more clarity to the view. The trees stood taller against the swathe of azure blue. The mountains vaulted from the earth’s belly with more startling strength when seen in reverse of nature’s gravity.

  She snuck a quick glance at Josiah and discovered him surveying the mountainside as well. The color of his skin was not a hindrance to their friendship in her eyes, just as she knew hers was not to him. But that was easier said out here, away from the confines of proper society and judging eyes. She wasn’t blind to the looks they drew in town. She simply chose not to let them bother her.

  As she turned and retrieved the light-protected plate, she heard Josiah’s soft gasp behind her.

  Straightening, she followed his line of vision, and in that moment she knew that, no matter her love of photography, her affinity for the English language, or her devotion to her career, words would fail to capture the majesty before her.

  A bull elk—fully mature, judging by his massive size—had emerged from a clustered stand of Douglas fir. He held his head erect and his nose twitched, reading the wind as easily as she would a book. No doubt he smelled them. No doubt he saw them. Scarcely twenty feet separated them, a perfect distance to capture his image.

  His enormous antlers extended skyward, and as she watched him, Elizabeth felt an overriding sense of awe. Already she could picture him filling the frame of her lens, as well as a frame in one of Washington’s prestigious art galleries. The bull elk moved with deliberate grace. His rack—measuring, conservatively, five feet in height, twice that in span—punctuated the blue horizon at his back. He exuded an innate authority to rule and seemed almost conscious of his beauty.

  This was the photograph she’d been praying for. The kind that would make Wendell Goldberg sit up in that fine leather chair of his and realize she was worth every penny he’d invested, and that she was the candidate who deserved to be the Chronicle’s first female photographer and journalist.

  The mule brayed, and the elk’s hindquarters quivered. Elizabeth held her breath, praying he wouldn’t leap back into the brush. But he scarcely moved. This was every bit his mountain, and all four of them knew it, the mule included. Now if she could only get the plate into the camera without frightening him away.

  Slipping the protective holder into the wooden slot caused a scraping noise, followed by an overloud click. The familiar sounds seemed inordinately bold against the hushed backdrop of nature, but the animal seemed unaffected by it all.

  Convinced that the Creator had handcrafted this opportunity, she removed the lens cap, exposed the prepared plate to the light, and began silently reciting the speech she knew by heart. Things were going to work out for her—she just had that feeling.

  All her life it seemed as though she’d been fighting an uphill battle. First with her health, and then in being excluded from opportunities due to her gender. Not that she wanted to be treated like a man. Not in the least. She simply wanted the same opportunities, to be allowed the c
hance to make the same mistakes. . . .

  The morning sun broke through the clouds, spilling translucent sheets of silver onto the valley floor far below and reflecting off the rippled surface of the river.

  Careful not to bump the camera or the tripod, she returned the lens cap to its place and admired the bull elk, which stood tall and proud, head erect. If this photograph exposed as well as she thought, it would rival any wildlife or nature scene captured in the western territories that she could recall. Even her mentor, Mathew Brady, would be envious.

  Josiah raised a hopeful brow as she removed the plate from the camera. She nodded once and enjoyed the responding twinkle in his eyes. Now to get the plate developed. She tossed him a smile and hurried toward the tent, letting herself imagine in even greater detail the look on Wendell Goldberg’s face when he saw the photograph of this bull elk set against the panorama of—

  An explosion fragmented the silence.

  Elizabeth turned to see the bull elk buckled forward, blood flowing from a wound directly behind his shoulder. The animal attempted a valiant stride and faltered, and Elizabeth had to stop herself from rushing toward him. Such beauty, such strength . . .

  He keened low, a primal sound, a cry she knew she’d never forget. Then he crumpled forward—just as the glass plate slipped from her hand.

  3

  Daniel Ranslett knelt on one knee, his right shoulder still absorbing the impact of the rifle’s discharge, just as it had thousands of times before. His focus remained trained on his target. His bullet had found its mark. Through the rifle’s sights, he watched the magnificent beast falter, then crumple at the knees. For two days and nights, he’d tracked the animal to line up a clean shot, one that would be swift and humane, worthy of such a kill.

  Watching the scene through his scope, a memory rose from years past, from another lifetime, and a better one. It lashed at his concentration, but with practiced control, he kept it at bay.

  A strange and unexpected kinship rose inside him for the animal across the ridge, and he experienced an odd twinge of jealousy. He felt the strong, solid beat of his own heart while knowing that a short distance away, the precious lifeblood of his prey lay spilling out.

  How had he, an agent of death for so many, escaped death countless times when innocent others had not?

  A soft whimper sounded beside him.

  “Steady there, Beau,” he whispered, giving the beagle’s head a quick stroke. “Not yet. You’re getting impatient with age, fella.” A trait he understood only too well.

  He lowered his rifle and hesitated, spotting movement on the ridge opposite him. Daniel rose and squinted against the sunlight piercing the evergreen branches overhead. A woman walked from behind a stand of pine. A Negro followed. The two were a ways from his kill but were walking straight for it.

  He grabbed his hat and his pouch from the rock beside him. Looping the pouch over his head, his long strides swiftly became a run. He reached the obscured crossing down the path in minutes, and the opposite ridge in another two, Beauregard fast on his heels. His tethered horse whinnied as they passed. Even in the cool of dawn, sweat slicked his skin from the run, and his cotton shirt soaked up the moisture beneath the hand-sewn leather jacket.

  Only when he reached the familiar bluff did he slow his pace. His breath came heavy, his body weak from exertion and little sleep in recent days. The woman and man stood over the bull elk now lying on its side, surrendered to fate. Trickles of blood pulsed from the fatal wound, lessening with each fading heartbeat.

  Only seconds remained. . . .

  “You’re responsible for this?” The woman made straight for him, her stance full of fight.

  But Daniel found little left in him. Not looking directly at her, he nodded, keeping his voice low. “Yes, ma’am, I am.” He whistled, and Beau dropped down beside him in the dirt, doleful eyes watchful, waiting. Daniel laid aside his rifle and his hat, and gave in to the fatigue weakening his legs. He knelt and stroked the elk’s neck.

  “You owe me an explanation, sir, for what just hap—”

  “Ma’am—” He looked up at her, working to bridle his frustration. It’d been four months since he’d spoken to another human being, even longer since he’d had a yearning to. He had regular conversations with Beau, but it wasn’t the same. Beau was much more pleasant than this woman promised to be. “Ma’am, I’ll answer your questions. I’ll even listen to your tirade . . . after I’m done here.”

  Stillness descended over the cliff—as if an unseen guest had been ushered in. Even the subtle chatter of wildlife fell hushed. The woman must have sensed it too, because her flow of accusations ceased. She stared at him as if she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking at, but it was clear she didn’t like what she saw.

  Thankful for the reprieve, however brief, Daniel focused his attention on the elk. He could feel the powerful cords of sinewy muscle succumbing to the diminishing flow of life. How insignificant and small he felt by comparison, and what he wouldn’t have given for his customary solitude in that moment.

  He moved closer to the animal’s head, and the memory he’d warded off moments earlier returned with a fierceness that made him shudder. He swallowed against the tightening in his throat, remembering the day he’d passed this tradition on to his youngest brother, Benjamin, on his first kill. Daniel kept his voice hushed, hoping only the dying elk—and perhaps Benjamin—would hear. “For your strength and bravery”—his voice broke—“I honor you. And for your sacrifice . . . my gratitude.”

  He could still see Benjamin’s frail hand resting against the doe’s throat as he’d repeated those same words, and the young, hot tears burning his brother’s dirt-stained cheeks. “I killed her, Danny,” his brother had whispered, over and over, his voice a blend of exhilaration and regret.

  “You have reason to be proud, Benjamin. You did well. Our family will eat for a month because of your bravery, and this animal’s sacrifice.” The smile on Benjamin’s upturned face had stayed fixed for at least a month following, and Daniel still knew it by heart.

  From the corner of his vision, he saw the woman move closer. The memory of his brother’s expression faded.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve cost me?” Her voice had grown softer, yet more strident.

  Daniel raised his head and slowly rose to his full height. Her chin lifted in tiny increments as he did, the challenge in her eyes mirroring his own. To his surprise, she didn’t back down—nor did she look like the type of woman who would. He didn’t mind strong-spirited women. Out here, females toughened up real quick-like or they didn’t last long. His guess was that she possessed enough stubbornness to persevere. If whatever was causing the shadows beneath her eyes didn’t win out first.

  “No, ma’am, I reckon I don’t know. But I have a feeling you aren’t about to let me off without telling me.” He shifted, feeling the weight of past days—of past years—pressing down hard. “So why don’t we just stand right here and let you get it off your chest so we can move on.”

  Her arrogant little jaw slipped a notch.

  Good thing. It’d give her time to gather her thoughts, if she had any worth gathering. She was a Yankee—that much became clear the second she’d opened her mouth. Daniel swung his gaze to the Negro beside her. The man made no move to speak, but neither did he look away, as Daniel had half expected him to.

  His stare was steady, solid, yet lacked overt challenge.

  Daniel didn’t hold anything against his kind, not really, and hadn’t for some time now. He’d be the first to admit he hadn’t known a Negro man in any way but one, and that world was long passed. The war had seen to that. He found the man’s open-faced gaze uncomfortable to hold overlong and stooped to get his hat. He knocked it against his thigh. “While you’re figuring out that cost, ma’am, I’ve got work to do.” He smoothed back his hair and resituated his hat on his head. “It’ll take me the better part of the day to get this animal field-dressed and back to town. Hopefully I’ll
make it before sundown.” He’d never seen a woman’s face go crimson quite so fast.

  “You have cost me an opportunity that I’ll likely not have again. The animal, the setting, the light . . . Everything was perfect. Not to mention my time here is limited.” Her hands sliced the air as she spoke and seemed to fuel the upset inside her. “And your only concern is getting this”—she briefly glanced down—“animal back down the mountain?”

  The only nugget Daniel had gleaned from her tirade was that her time here had a limit to it. Another good thing. Studying the firm set of her jaw, he was reminded again of why he’d moved to this sparsely populated territory a decade ago, and why he’d chosen to live a far piece from Timber Ridge. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people. He did. He just liked most of them better from a distance.

  People were bringing change to these mountains. Change he didn’t welcome. First the miners came, gouging and blasting a path to riches, leaving an ugly and indelible mark. Now opportunists from the North arrived, daily it seemed, promising to leave a similar legacy. Only they cloaked their business endeavors in the guise of progress, same as they’d done after ransacking his plantation and devastating his family. After crushing the South.

  The woman before him lacked the grace and charm of a Southernbred lady, but she wasn’t wholly lacking in attractive qualities, despite the fatigue she wore. The color of her hair was fetching enough. A reddish-gold that captured the light and returned it. But the way she had it fixed . . . The masses of curls pinned tightly to her head reminded him of corkscrews—some long, others short—and they bobbed about her temples when she spoke, as though possessing minds of their own. And ornery ones at that. Not unlike their owner, it would appear.

  Unbidden, an image came to him of what she might look like with that pile of curls unpinned and loosened about her shoulders. That would surely be an improvement, but as tempting an image as that created, that mouth of hers and where she hailed from canceled out any interest he might’ve pursued in another time and place.