Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Page 4

  Still, a good mother’s training tended to reach deep inside a boy, setting roots that held fast, even when that boy became a man.

  He tipped his hat back an inch to make sure she could see his eyes and looked squarely into hers. “My apologies for any harm I’ve caused you, ma’am. It didn’t come by intention, I give you my oath.”

  “How kind and considerate of you, sir.” Arsenic laced her pretty smile and dimmed her former beauty. “But your oath isn’t going to get me back my photograph.”

  Why, the feisty little—Daniel’s thought stopped short. Surely he’d misunderstood her. “Your . . . photograph?”

  “Yes, my . . . photograph.” She repeated the word as though trying to mimic him, but he doubted his tone was that arrogant, nor his accent that foolish sounding. “I’d just captured an image of the elk when your rifle went off, causing me to drop the plate.” She motioned behind her. “The picture plate is broken. Ruined!”

  All this fuss over a picture? His estimation of the woman slipped several more notches.

  He glanced past her and spotted the wooden box balanced on a tripod. He’d seen similar contraptions back during the war. Photographers would swarm onto a field after a battle, like vultures scavenging a next meal. And their pictures of the wounded, or those begging for death to come, would show up early the next morning in newspapers or be found hanging in store windows. As if being there and seeing your childhood friends cut down, one after the other, hadn’t been painful enough. Some things weren’t meant to be made so public, and he didn’t understand others’ insistence that they should be. A photograph to remember wasn’t something he wanted—or needed.

  “Ma’am, as I see it, there’s nothing much I can do about what you lost. I’d make it up to you if I could, but I can’t. You’ve made that more than clear.”

  A storm moved in behind her eyes, but it was one he had no intention of weathering. A snap of his fingers brought Beau to his side. Daniel turned to go, aware of the murmur of conversation behind him. Knowing it wasn’t directed at him, he started down the path to his horse—and then heard the distinct clearing of a throat.

  “Perhaps there is a way for you to make restitution after all . . . Mr. Ranslett.”

  Daniel stopped midstride, already dreading the look that would surely accompany the woman’s uppity tone, and knowing full well whom to thank for her learning his name.

  The Negro turned away, but Daniel would’ve sworn he’d caught the man smiling before he did. In the woman’s eyes, the storm had passed, but the steeled determination now in its place promised to be of no less trouble to him.

  4

  Daniel Ranslett strode back toward her, his gait purposeful, his expression amusedly bothered, and Elizabeth readied herself for a spirited exchange. She enjoyed debating about as much as she enjoyed Tillie’s buttermilk pie.

  One thing quickly became certain—she wanted to photograph this man.

  Watching him, the memory of a mythological figure rose in her mind, born from a collection of stories her father had read to her at bedtime as a child. She could still recall many of the characters, larger than life, all of them, but the man who bore the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders stood out above all the rest. Atlas’s physical strength had been renowned, but what she remembered most from the story was imagining the tired written on his face, the sense of fatigue in his every movement as the author painted his plight, and how, even as a child, she’d felt sorry for him.

  The man walking toward her now shared similar markings of strength—and weariness.

  He was dressed in buckskin, and dark hair hung loose and thick at his shoulders. His jaw bearded and unkempt, he looked as though he’d been living in the wilds for weeks, if not months, and that alone earned him instant respect. After spending a day hiking and taking photographs in the Rockies, she couldn’t wait to return to the comfort and warmth of her room at the boardinghouse.

  She might’ve thought him part native if not for the water green of his eyes . . . and that drawl. As soon as he’d spoken, his Southern heritage had bled unstanched. To say he was a simple-spoken man was undeniable, yet something about his manner kept her from thinking him simpleminded.

  He stood straddle-legged before her, staring down, and Elizabeth fought the inexplicable urge to salute him. Much to her father’s chagrin, she’d mastered the finesse of a military salute long before she’d learned to curtsey, and something in Ranslett’s unassuming swagger and the way he carried himself goaded her to follow through. But she doubted he was the kind of man who would take that gesture kindly coming from a woman.

  Which, heaven help her, just tempted her all the more. But if this man was her key to photographing the Ute people, as Josiah had whispered moments ago, she would refrain.

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am?” His sharp features held suspicion.

  Her right hand still itched to be raised, but she kept it stayed. “I said, perhaps there is a way for you to make restitution for your actions.”

  He stared hard. “For my actions?”

  When she nodded, his eyes narrowed in a way that might have intimidated her, had her father not tried the same tactic many a time. She’d mastered the return stare by the age of seven.

  Ranslett did a funny sideways thing with his jaw, as though he were trying to size her up. “And just how might you propose I . . . make restitution?”

  He said the word in such a way that she wondered if he knew what it meant. Yet she resisted the urge to explain. “Is it safe to assume, Mr. Ranslett, that there are other elk populating these mountains? Or have you slaughtered every living creature between here and Wyoming?”

  The green of his eyes deepened, but not with humor. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I tracked that bull for two days in order to line up a clean shot. To make sure he’d suffer as little as possible.”

  Surprising sincerity accentuated his features and threatened to soften her ire, but thoughts of her lost photograph kept it fueled. “Most impressive, I’m certain, but I’m not talking about killing another animal, much to your likely dismay. I’m talking about a photograph, Mr. Ranslett. My camera lens can capture images from a great distance, so there’s no need to get this close again, though that would be preferred if you could manage it. I would require an animal of similar size and grandeur, one that will impress.”

  He removed his hat. His glance drifted casually to her left hand, then back again. “And just who is it that you’re trying so hard to impress, Miss . . . ?”

  She narrowed her eyes this time, not caring for the tone he’d taken. To hear him speak with that deep voice and smooth languid drawl, like molasses slathered over bread hot from the oven, he sounded for all the world like a properly bred Southern gentleman.

  But the manner in which he’d addressed her—that held no semblance whatsoever to the Southern charm witnessed from Georgian and Tennessean delegates she’d met at political gatherings. Perhaps her father’s assessment was correct—Southern charm was little more than oiled politeness and surface at best, a poor attempt by the lesser countrymen to garner favor with their victorious Northern cousins.

  Still, she found herself unprepared for Mr. Ranslett’s presence close up. His eyes, observant and full, gave the appearance of kindness, despite their penetrating quality. And beneath the rough exterior, there was a sense of civility to the man, a tenderness in his manner. He carried himself with an assurance that resembled nothing of an attempt to impress. On the contrary, he gave the distinct impression that being in another’s company—hers in particular—was among the least of his desires.

  And she still couldn’t decide which of the two smelled more like a wild animal—him or the bull elk.

  “It’s Miss Westbrook, sir, and I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m simply trying to do my j—” She caught herself before completing the word. But not soon enough by the look on Ranslett’s face.

  A smirk tipped one side of his mouth. “And just what exac
tly is your . . . job, Miss Westbrook?” He said the word as though he found it amusing.

  Elizabeth felt her backbone stiffen yet held her temper in check. People always acted differently once they learned she worked for a newspaper. They grew more guarded, or depending on the situation, they sometimes stopped speaking with her altogether. For someone who’d never made friends easily, that part of working for the Chronicle hadn’t served her well.

  But she hoped to change that in Timber Ridge—by giving townsfolk the opportunity to get to know her first. Wendell Goldberg had initially suggested the idea, stating that telling people she worked for the paper at the outset would only alienate them, hinder her assignment. Best to win them over first, let them think that photography was her hobby, and then tell them when she was ready. While it felt the tiniest bit deceitful, she saw the wisdom in his counsel and wanted to do whatever she could to better her chances of getting that position.

  She raised her chin a degree, having learned a thing or two about negotiation from eavesdropping on political discussions outside her father’s office door. “You said you’d be willing to make restitution if you could, sir. And if memory serves, I believe you gave your word. Is that offer still on the table?” She paused, unsure from the set of his jaw whether this redirection would work. “Or is your oath of questionable worth?”

  His smirk disappeared. He fingered the rim of his hat. “I can’t guarantee we’ll come upon anything, ma’am, but I’ll give you a day— one day—to see if we can scout out another elk. No promises. No guarantees. After that, my obligation will be seen to.”

  She started to push for more, then decided his offer was enough. For now.

  Feeling empowered, she held out her hand. It was a custom just beginning to take hold back east but was one she favored. Men shook hands with one another when agreeing to something, why not with women? “Shall we strike hands on the deal, Mr. Ranslett? Make it official?”

  He stared at her, then at her hand, and took a half step back. “I don’t strike hands with women, ma’am. But I’ll honor my word—don’t you doubt it.”

  Feeling slightly embarrassed, she attempted a good-natured huff. “Come now, Mr. Ranslett. I am a woman who—”

  “You won’t get any argument from me there, miss. That’s something we can agree on, at least.”

  His tone bordered on playful and caught her off guard, as did the mischievous arch of his brow. Unwilling to be deterred by some Southern yokel—no matter how impressive looking—Elizabeth summoned her resolve, her hand still extended.

  “Surely you’re not shy of such a thing. A grown man such as yourself.”

  “There’s not much I’m shy about anymore, ma’am. And I don’t say that to my credit. But striking hands with a woman . . .” He slipped his hat on and took his time in answering. “That’s one thing I’ll never do.”

  Feeling the fool, Elizabeth slowly drew back her hand. “Very well. I suppose I’ve credited the South with more progress than it’s due.” She meant for the comment to sting, as he’d stung her pride, and saw from his darkened expression that apparently it had.

  “If that’s your idea of progress, ma’am, then we define that word a mite different.”

  “There’s probably a whole passel of things we’d define a mite different, if we studied it far enough.” She did a fair job of mimicking his twang, her years of working alongside men having sharpened her ability to respond in situations like this.

  Ranslett studied her for a moment, then tipped his hat in gentlemanly fashion and turned. His parting expression, a mingling of reproof and regret, stole whatever triumph she might have felt and left her wishing she’d used better judgment.

  She stared after him as he and his dog rounded the corner and disappeared from view. Her gaze moved back to the elk that up until moments ago had ruled this mountain, and that now lay crumpled and defeated.

  She’d seen Ranslett run his hand along the animal’s magnificent rack and knew buyers back east would pay handsomely for it. He probably had a purchaser waiting in the wings. The thought sat ill within her, and it didn’t take her long to figure out why. One of the main reasons for her coming to this territory was to encourage tourists to travel west. To stay in a luxury hotel complete with hot springs and a waterfall and . . . to game hunt, if they desired.

  “You sure this is still a good idea, Miz Westbrook?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Josiah. “You’re the one who told me his name a moment ago.”

  “I knows it. I know I did.” He wagged his head from side to side. “I’m just thinkin’ back on it now, is all.” His brow furrowed in a comical yet serious way. “You happen to take notice of the way he looked at you, ma’am? And how he gave me the eye?”

  Elizabeth studied her new friend more closely. “You’re not . . . afraid of him, are you? Of how he might . . . mistreat you?”

  Josiah’s expression sobered. His gaze went distant, and she sensed the pages of his life turning back inside him.

  “No, ma’am, I ain’t afraid. Not of that. Not no more.” His jaw went rigid. “Worst thing a man could do to me . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. He bowed his head. “That already been done.”

  Elizabeth started to pose the obvious question, but better sense kept her from it. Her father had warned her about such times, when her natural curiosity was not a virtue but rather a fault, an intrusion. And hadn’t personal experience confirmed that lesson as well . . . ?

  “I just knows when a man is set on helpin’ a person. And I don’t get the feelin’ that helpin’ you is what Mr. Ranslett is set on.”

  Elizabeth tucked a wayward curl back into place. “I don’t really care what Mr. Ranslett is set on as long as he leads me to another bull elk. And will somehow refrain from shooting it until after I’ve developed the image.”

  She had just prepared another wet plate when Mr. Ranslett reappeared over the rise leading his horse, his aging beagle in tow. The scowl on the man’s face had deepened, which improved her mood considerably. Served him right, after what he’d done.

  He wasted no time in situating the bull elk onto its back, not an easy task to manage alone. When he pulled his knife from his belt, she turned away. Some things she didn’t need to see.

  “You be needin’ some help with that?”

  At Josiah’s question, she turned to answer him, only to realize he wasn’t addressing her.

  “No . . . thank you.” Ranslett didn’t bother looking up. “I don’t.”

  Josiah hesitated, then moved away, his expression masking any affront he might have felt. Another lesson he’d learned from his former station in life, perhaps?

  An hour and a half later, with her shoulders cramping and an ache spanning her forehead, Elizabeth slipped a total of four dried glass plates, developed and swathed for travel, into a pack that Josiah loaded on the mule. She massaged her temples, wondering at the frequent headaches she’d had in recent days.

  Despite the earlier incident with the bull elk, she had to admit that the day had been a success after all. The panoramas should please Goldberg, along with Chilton Enterprises, while communicating to him her seriousness about this opportunity. She would also let him know she’d begun organizing a travel party for her excursion to the recently discovered cliff dwellings south of Timber Ridge. She planned to leave within the month, if not sooner. The photographs at Mesa Verde were at the top of Goldberg’s list, and therefore hers too.

  She stole a glance across the cliff. And now she had found someone familiar enough with the mountain passes—and the Ute Indians—to guide her there.

  Ranslett hadn’t said another word to either of them. Hunched over his task, he didn’t look up when she approached. One glimpse at the bull elk reminded her to entertain her gaze elsewhere . . . and removed an appetite for meat anytime soon.

  “We’re going to head down now.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Josiah and I,” and then immediately wished she hadn’t. It made her appear caj
oling.

  Ranslett stood and wiped his hands on the front of his untucked shirt, having shed his outer buckskin coat a while back. Watching the uncouth display, she got the feeling he meant for it to irritate her. Unwilling to take the bait, she looked down, feigning nonchalance, and it was then that she noticed his shoes. Made of soft leather and looped together on the top with strips of rawhide, they resembled what she’d seen natives wearing in photographs. What a strange combination of traits this man held.

  The dog ventured closer, and she held out her hand to pet him. But a quick command from his master sent him scurrying back to enemy territory.

  Her patience waned. “Mr. Ranslett, how may I get in touch with you? Once we’re back to town.”

  He reached for his canteen and took a long draw. Water dribbled down his dark-stubbled chin before he wiped it away with his sleeve. “You won’t, ma’am.”

  She waited, half expecting him to belch, but he spared her that indelicacy. “Then . . . how will we meet to—”

  “Don’t worry.” Holding her gaze, he stuffed the cork into the canteen’s spout with his fist. “Finding you won’t be hard . . . ma’am.

  ”

  Certain he was poking fun at her, she managed a single nod, authoritatively, as she’d seen her father do. “Very well. Then I’ll expect to see you again . . . soon.” She arched a brow to make her point, but he’d already turned away. Feeling dismissed—and not liking it—she joined Josiah.

  Before they rounded the bend on their downhill trek, something prompted her to look back. She discovered Ranslett watching her. He didn’t bother to look away, and a slow smile tipped his mouth. Without returning it, she quickly faced forward and sauntered down the hill, wanting to be the first to silently dismiss the other this time.

  The man might not know it yet, but she was confident she’d just found the guide who would lead her to the Ute people. And—if she played her cards right—who would lead her expedition south to the cliff dwellings.