Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Read online

  5

  A knock on her door the next morning roused Elizabeth from a restless night of little sleep.

  “Good morning, Miss Westbrook. I’m leaving your tea service outside the room, dear.”

  Elizabeth rose on one elbow and rubbed her eyes, her world still blurry. She’d awakened often due to dreams during the night, yet she couldn’t remember a single one. “My thanks, Miss Ruby.”

  The soft padding of boots on the planked wooden floor in the hallway faded, and Elizabeth pushed back the covers and shuffled from bed. A tremor tingled her right hand, and she clenched and unclenched her fingers in an effort to get it to stop. The same thing had happened last night as she retired, but she’d attributed it to writing the article for the Chronicle. She always wrote a first draft, made revisions to that copy, and then wrote a second. Tedious, but she prided herself on turning in a clean copy. Something Goldberg highly regarded.

  A familiar scent slowly distinguished itself from the muskiness of the room, and a quick glance out the window confirmed her suspicion—it had rained sometime during the night. Which didn’t bode well for her. Humidity always worsened her lung ailment.

  She reached for the bottle on the bedside table and tilted it at an angle so the light spilling through the window shone through the amber-colored glass. She’d been rationing it in recent days, but only a couple of teaspoons remained. Not even a full dose.

  She opened the door, carried the tea service into her room, and set it on the desk. Though it was far less formal than the coin-silver set back home, she suspected it was Miss Ruby’s finest, which made her appreciate it all the more. Miss Ruby, the proprietress of the boardinghouse, already had the tea steeping in the pot for her, as she did each morning. It was a special herbal blend the doctors in Washington recommended for her ailment. Elizabeth poured a cup and stirred in the remains of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup and drank it as a precautionary measure.

  The syrup was also something a physician had prescribed, and she’d quickly discovered that it had a soothing effect on frayed nerves, which might prove helpful after such a fitful night. Its bitter aftertaste had lessened over time, but it still burned a path down her throat. She’d recently started taking a dash of the syrup with her tea before retiring too, to help her sleep, but with the bottle being near empty she had foregone the ritual the evening prior.

  She slipped down to the communal washroom and raced through her morning routine, eager to get dressed and to the store so she could mail the photographs she’d developed after dinner last night. With any luck her package would arrive at Wendell Goldberg’s office before the other candidates’ first submissions did and would be a silent indicator of her determination.

  Pausing for a second, she stared in the mirror at the flurry of curls springing from her head. She tried to pull her fingers through but knew it was useless. The only time she could get a brush or comb through the mess was when it was wet, and she hadn’t the time for that this morning. Oh, for hair black as a raven’s wing, straight and silky like the woman she’d seen earlier in the week at Mullins General Store, instead of the wiry mass of corkscrew curls God had seen fit to give her. Any effort to groom it now would only tease it into a rat’s nest, as Tillie had said all too often.

  Tillie was about the only one who could say that to her, given that her own hair was also averse to the brush. She sighed and pinned the curls up as best she could.

  If there was a way of contacting Mr. Ranslett, she could get an idea of when he’d be available to take her hunting. But she’d have to rely on him to get in touch with her. And if Ranslett failed to keep his word . . .

  As soon as the thought came, it quickly left, finding no foothold. “I’ll honor my word.” She thought about what he’d said to her yesterday and somehow knew he would do just that—keep his word—regardless of the obvious fact that he didn’t care to.

  Not until she’d climbed into her chilled bed last night had the idea come to her. Even as she’d tried to dismiss it, she’d found herself weighing its merit. She could have taken another photograph of that bull elk . . . afterward, with Daniel Ranslett standing beside it. Though the idea still made her shudder, she knew Goldberg would have wanted her to do it. A photograph like that wouldn’t have made the front page, for obvious reasons, but could have been used to advertise to game hunters.

  Still, taking a picture of something dead didn’t sit well within her, even if it would win her Goldberg’s favor.

  She repacked her toiletries and headed back to her room. She fit the key into the lock, but . . . it didn’t turn. She tried to force it, sighing in frustration. Miss Ruby had warned her it might stick on occasion. But of all the times . . . As it was she would have to rush to make the stage that carried mail to Denver every weekday morning, and she didn’t want to wait until Monday to mail her photographs.

  She shook the knob, then gave it a brute twist. That did the trick, and she rushed inside.

  She dressed quickly, lacing her corset snug and pulling on her stockings. Hers was the only room located on the third floor of the boardinghouse and was more spacious than the rooms on the lower levels. It had plenty of space to store her equipment, but Miss Ruby had made it plain that she wasn’t enamored with her bringing the various chemicals for her photography into the room. Yet she had nowhere else to put them. And she needed them close in order to develop pictures during the evening hours. Not the ideal arrangement, but she’d make it work. No doubt hauling the heavy equipment up and down the flights of stairs was growing tiresome for Josiah, yet he never complained about it.

  In fact, she couldn’t remember Josiah complaining about anything she asked him to do. He might sass her occasionally, but that was different and all in fun. And she enjoyed it. Their banter was reminiscent of her relationship with Tillie. Oh, how she missed that woman.

  Elizabeth buttoned her dress and fitted the coordinating black cummerbund around her waist, then secured the fasteners and stepped back to eye the ensemble in the full-length mirror. The dress was by far her favorite. She’d spotted it on a trip to New York City with her father and had slipped into the clothier to buy it, only to discover the price. Exorbitant! So she’d sketched the gown and shown it to a dressmaker in Washington, and the woman had captured the lines perfectly. Wearing it made her feel more feminine, yet it had a businesslike quality about it too. Not too frilly. Not too plain.

  The bustle in the back was a work of art and flattered her waistline. Which, her being thirty-two, had far more generous curves than a decade previous. But that was the beauty of a corset—it lessened the contribution of passing years. And its curse? Not being able to take a deep, satisfying breath. There were days she weighed the cost.

  Checking the clock one last time and knowing it would be close, she grabbed the envelope of photographs addressed to Wendell Goldberg. Already the hot tea was taking effect. A calmness flowed through her even as she hurried out the door.

  6

  There’s a lot of meat here, son. You sure you want all of it going to them this time?”

  “That’s what I said—all of it.” Standing in the doorway of the butchery, Daniel turned to see Lolly sink his meat cleaver into the milky pink shank of the elk. Beau yipped at the sound, his tail wagging, but a well-aimed look from Daniel kept him stayed and gnawing on the bone Lolly had tossed him.

  “All I’m suggesting is that you think on your decision again. I could put some of this aside, get a good price for it. The rack, especially.” Lolly wielded the butcher’s axe as if it were an outgrowth of his thick, beefy arm. A lifetime of butchering accounted for that. “Then you’d be set once winter comes again. Wouldn’t have to worry none.”

  “I appreciate your concern, friend, but I’m already set for next winter. I typically don’t worry about much. And the rack’s already spoken for.” Anticipating Lolly’s scowl made it even more enjoyable when it came.

  “Then tell me this, Ranslett . . . What price are you gettin’ for this bull�
��s rack? A goodly sum, I hope.”

  Daniel turned his attention to the boardwalk outside so Lolly couldn’t see his smile.

  “You didn’t just give it away, did you?” Lolly ceased his chopping. “Please tell me you asked something for it.”

  The heat of Lolly’s stare prickled the back of Daniel’s neck, but he ignored it and knelt to give Beau’s head a good rubbing. The dog rolled onto his side, tongue lolling from his mouth.

  Lolly swore softly beneath his breath and resumed chopping.

  Daniel helped himself to a piece of jerky from a jar and regretted—for the hundredth time—his agreeing to take Miss Westbrook hunting. Her request had been nothing short of foolhardy, but he’d felt partially responsible for what had happened on the ridge yesterday—at the time anyway. Granted, that sense of responsibility had lessened each time she’d opened her tart little mouth.

  What she was doing so far west, traveling the Colorado mountains unescorted—or at least not properly so—wasn’t clear. She and that Negro journeying together wasn’t proper. Even being from the North, she should know better. He’d wager his rifle that she’d come west for something more than just a hobby of picture taking. She was hiding something. He felt it.

  And the way she’d wanted to strike hands with him . . . He tore off another piece of jerky and tossed some to Beau. He did like her spunk, though, and she had plenty of it. Might be fun to take her out and see how she could handle a rifle, see how that spunk held up under pressure. Spending time with her might prove more entertaining than he’d originally thought.

  “It’s a wonder you got a spare penny to your name, Ranslett.” Lolly humphed. “All my life I’ve waited for a kill like this, and you just pull up at my door, sled loaded with the biggest bull elk I’ve ever seen, acting like it’s nothing. You and I need to discuss right priorities, son.”

  Daniel laughed to himself, appreciating the false censure in Lolly’s tone, and that the man referred to him as son. Leaning against the doorpost, he watched the town of Timber Ridge slowly awaken. The Maroon Bells stood sentinel over the town while rocky troughs and peaks rose and swooned around them in stony admiration.

  Sometimes he felt almost one with this place, as though he belonged here, instead of like the misplaced son he knew he was. How could he have lived in these mountains so long when his heart, his thoughts, the root of who he was, lay buried on a battlefield back in Tennessee?

  Then again, perhaps therein rested his answer.

  He stretched his shoulders, tired and stiff from days of hunting. By the time he’d gotten down the mountain, it had been dark and he’d been bushed, so he’d bunked with Lolly last night, on a cot in back.

  Directly across the street, the door to the boardinghouse opened and Daniel took a hasty step backward, hoping she hadn’t seen him. With that riot of copper curls caught up and a package of some sort tucked beneath her arm, she set out at a swift pace, looking like a woman being chased by a fire.

  People on the boardwalk turned and stared in her wake, yet she seemed unaware of the attention. Most folks waited until after she’d passed before leaning close to whisper to one another, probably thinking they were being mannerly. But in his estimation, anything you wouldn’t do or say to a person’s face shouldn’t rightly be done or said behind their back.

  Miss Westbrook took the corner at breakneck speed. Presented with her shapely backside, Daniel found double enjoyment—first, in watching the tempting sway of those hips as she moved. And second, in simply watching her go, knowing she wasn’t his concern. Hard to say which gave him the greater pleasure.

  “You sure don’t seem to hang on to much for long, Ranslett. Except for that rifle there. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you carry another one. Which strikes me as odd, if you’re askin’, you bein’ a man who makes guns for a living. Which you didn’t ask me, I know. But if you ever did”—the chop of the cleaver accentuated his point—“that’s how I’d give answer.”

  Not one to require an abundance of company, Daniel did enjoy an occasional visit with Lolly. The man could carry a conversation all by himself, which suited Daniel just fine, and the gem of wisdom or insight that often fell from the man’s lips kept him returning too. That and Grady Lolliford’s unfailing honesty.

  “Speaking of not askin’ me . . .” Lolly blew out a breath. “You haven’t asked whether I’ve gotten any orders for you lately.”

  “Guess I figured you would’ve said something if you had.”

  “Well, consider it said. An order came in this week.”

  Daniel looked back to find Lolly watching him, and he knew why. “Who’s it from?”

  “Fella new to town. Said he’d just left Mullins’s store and didn’t find the gun he was looking for. He’s huntin’ elk and bear, looking for a guide too. I told him about you, that you made the best guns I’ve ever shot with. Told him I wasn’t sure when I’d see you next, but that I’d ask you when I did. So . . . you got any rifles ready?”

  “I do. Two of them. I’ll bring them in tomorrow and leave them with you.”

  Lolly laid his axe aside. “Glad to hear it.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “Sounds like you’re doing better . . . since the last time we talked.”

  Daniel approached the cutting table and fingered the rough edge of the wooden counter. “I am. It’s just taken some time.”

  “Like I told you before, it wasn’t your fault, son . . . what happened last fall.”

  Daniel nodded, having told himself that over and over.

  “Thomas Boyd was a good man. He just wasn’t a very good hunter. And that’s no fault to you. You were teachin’ him, but he wasn’t ready to go out on his own. That’s all there was to it.”

  Daniel stared outside. “Some people still think it was my fault—I can see it in their eyes.”

  Lolly moved from behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron front. “They’ll come around, given time.” He sighed. “Something like this happens, ’specially to a good family like the Boyds, and folks look for a person to blame. Guess it helps them cope with the loss. Makes them feel like they’re more in control, maybe. Less at the mercy of some fickle-handed fate. And you bein’ so private a man . . . well, that doesn’t help.”

  The blame Daniel had seen in Rachel Boyd’s eyes at the funeral last fall had worn a guilty rut in his conscience. He wondered how she was faring, and her two boys, though he was none too eager to see her again. Nor she him, he felt certain. Which seemed odd after having grown up together. She’d tried to blame her husband’s death on the gun Thomas had been carrying that day—one Daniel had custom made for him—but the rifle had been examined and had fired repeatedly without fail.

  Lolly gestured to Daniel’s rifle. “You ever want to sell that beauty, just say the word. Those Whitworths are rare. I know plenty of men around here who’ve admired it, and they’d pay you a sinful price for it too. I think they figure it’d be like owning a piece of history. Albeit from the losin’ side of the war.”

  Stung by that last comment, Daniel knew the man meant no harm. He ran a finger down the overlong barrel. Lolly knew the gun’s history, and his, yet had never judged him over it. “Much obliged, friend, but I think I’ll keep her.”

  Lolly opened his mouth, then closed it and motioned behind him. “Help me with something out back?”

  A whispered “Stay” kept Beau by the door, and Daniel followed Lolly to the icehouse. Though the man stood a few inches shorter in stature, his forearms were the size of Daniel’s thighs. Whatever needed carrying, Lolly could’ve managed it himself. But Daniel appreciated being asked, while also suspecting an ulterior motive.

  Lolly pointed to the other half of the elk hanging upside down from the rafters. “I told you he was a big one.”

  Daniel exhaled, his breath clouding the frigid air. “How did I ever get this thing back to town?”

  “You didn’t. That fine mare of yours did.” He retrieved a saw hanging on the far wall. “Don’t seem fair to me”�
�his gruff voice took on a shine—“you owning both her and that rifle.”

  “Tell you what . . .” Daniel gripped the lower portion of the carcass and secured it as Lolly started the cut. “You can have both of them . . . once I’m dead.”

  “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a man who has a saw in his hands, boy.” Lolly grinned as he sliced through meat and bone.

  Knowing where this meat was going gave Daniel a sense of satisfaction. It always did. It took every ounce of strength to manage the elk quarter alone, but he wasn’t about to ask for help. Lolly would never let him live it down. The man’s kidding could be merciless.

  Back in the shop, together they heaved the carcass atop the cutting block.

  “Little out of breath there?” Lolly laughed and wriggled his bushy brows.

  Daniel kept his grin from showing. “Maybe when I’m old like you, I’ll be able to lift more.”

  Lolly popped him a good one in the arm. “Listen . . . ah . . .” He shrugged. “Why don’t you take the meat on out to the Tuckers’ yourself this time? It’d mean a lot to Mathias and Oleta to see you again. And the kids would like to see you too.”

  So that is it. Daniel had sensed something was coming. “I think it’d be best to have it sent over, like we’ve done the last couple of times. I’m not sure my going out there would be a good thing right now.”

  “Whose good are we talking about? Theirs? Or yours?”

  Daniel crossed the room to retrieve his rifle. “There’re times, Lolly, when your honesty oversteps its welcome.”

  “Surely you don’t think the Tuckers will treat you any different than before. If you think they will, then you’re not giving them enough credit.”

  Daniel picked up his rifle and got his hat from the rack. He knocked the hat against his thigh, and dust plumed. Truth was, part of him wanted to go back out to Mathias and Oleta Tucker’s home, to see them and their children. He’d been thinking about it for some time now. None of the boys or girls were natural-born to the couple, but they loved and cared for them as if they were. But the kids had known Thomas Boyd, and they played with the Boyds’ boys.