Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Page 6

  In the space of a breath, a memory sunk deep inside him worked itself loose and rose to the surface.

  It was a fleeting glimpse, only a second or two captured in his mind’s eye, filed away somewhere deep inside him all these years. Of his pushing Benjamin on a swing beneath a two-hundred-year-old oak behind their home. He was twelve or thirteen at the time, and Benjamin was just a little thing, tow-haired and smiling, not even walking yet. He’d built the swing as a Christmas present and remembered tying knot after knot after knot in that looped rope to make sure it held good and tight.

  Little good did all his protection do in the end. . . .

  A snap of Daniel’s fingers brought Beau to his side. The dog had the elk bone wedged between his teeth. “I appreciate your work on the elk, Lolly. Be sure and keep a portion of the meat for your trouble.” He paused in the doorway, hearing the resigned sigh behind him. He adjusted his hat, reconsidering, his eyes misting as he looked anywhere but back at Lolly. “Have the meat ready come morning. I’ll pick it up on my way out to the Tuckers’. ”

  He left the shop before Lolly could respond, and before he could change his mind. He headed down the street. Since last fall, he’d all but stopped coming to town, and when he did, he made extra sure he didn’t go anywhere near the sheriff ’s office. With that in mind, he took the long way around town on his way to the general store.

  7

  When Elizabeth rounded the corner to the general store to post her package, she was greeted by the sight of the stagecoach driving off in the opposite direction. She stopped midstride on the boardwalk and let out a frustrated sigh—then bit back a much harsher response when someone plowed into her from behind.

  She turned and glared at the man, and heard every word—including the not-so-watered-down expletives—he spat at her through his tobacco-spittled beard.

  She stared at him. “Perhaps you shouldn’t follow so closely next time. And give thought to a bath . . . that would prove useful.” Seemed the farther west she traveled, the fewer people practiced good hygiene.

  A vulgar gesture accompanied his sneer—a gesture she’d unfortunately seen used by soldiers and officers. Though she’d known many soldiers of upstanding character, the military seemed to also attract the worst of men. She chose not to respond and turned away.

  So much for being the first to get her photographs to Goldberg. With heavy steps, she covered the remaining distance to the telegraph office. She’d have to settle for wiring Goldberg to notify him that she would mail the package on Monday, along with the next installment in E.G. Brenton’s column.

  Dreading having to cross the messy thoroughfare, she carefully negotiated the mud-caked steps leading from the boardwalk down to the street. She gathered her skirt at the sides, grimacing at the thick layer of sludge and muck left from last night’s rain. And her with her favorite dress on. Not a good decision on her part.

  Her second miscalculation of the day.

  Whenever Washington received rainfall, the air was thick and muggy, pressing over the city like a wet woolen blanket. Why the forefathers of this country had chosen to build the nation’s capital on a swamp, she’d never understand. Yet that wasn’t the case in these mountains. Yesterday’s dirt might’ve been churned to mud, but the air still felt dry and light. Pungent evergreen scented the chill along with a sweetness she would’ve sworn was honeysuckle, but neither scent improved her attitude.

  She climbed the stairs to the boardwalk and arrived at the telegraph office, only to be stopped cold by a sign posted on the door. Her last strand of patience evaporated. She strode inside. “How long will the telegraph be down?”

  The man behind the counter quickly rose from his stool, his once-white apron smeared with ink and dingy with stains. At least he wasn’t the young boy who had assisted her earlier that week. It had taken that inexperienced youth three tries to relay the telegram to the next station. And even then, she’d wondered if Goldberg would ever receive it and if it would still resemble her original message in any form.

  “Good day, ma’am.” The man gave a conciliatory nod, his expression showing regret. “I wish I could say, but I’m not sure. They think it’s a problem down in the canyon. I heard something about the rains causing a slide during the night.”

  “A slide?” She briefly glanced outside. “That much rain fell?”

  “Doesn’t take much here, ma’am—especially this time of the year. Not with the snows thawing and beginning to melt. If you want to leave your message with me, I’ll send it as soon as they have the lines repaired. That way you won’t have to come back in.”

  She reached for a slip of paper, aggravated at the situation but also with herself. “Yes, thank you. I’d appreciate that.” It was her own fault she’d missed getting that package on the stage. Still, Timber Ridge was primitive compared to Washington—rain taking out the lines. She thought she’d factored in the remoteness and what effect it would have on her situation, but she hadn’t.

  She penned the brief message in her head first, and removed unnecessary words as she set it in ink, factoring each cent. As well as factoring the confidentiality of the man sending it. “Am I assured, sir . . . that the messages I send through your company are kept confidential within your office here in Timber Ridge?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His expression and manner reflected integrity. “Only me and whoever’s listening to the clicks on down the line will know what you sent. Unless you’re telling someone how you’re about to rob the bank.” Humor crept into his features. “Then I might have to get the sheriff involved.”

  She liked this man. “Agreed. Please send word to me at the boardinghouse once you receive confirmation of receipt.” She laid her coins on the counter.

  He read what she’d written and nodded. “Will do, Miss Westbrook.”

  Only a few steps down the boardwalk, she passed a darkened office window. It was part of the same building that housed the telegraph office, but it occupied a larger portion, and she’d already been there once. Sketched in large white letters on the front glass window were the words Timber Ridge Reporter.

  As was her habit when she traveled, she’d stopped by her first day in town to pick up a copy of the newspaper. A person could learn a lot about a town from its newspaper, and by meeting its editor. But Drayton Turner, the Reporter’s editor, had been out. “On special assignment” according to the young woman behind the front desk, as if Elizabeth should’ve been impressed by such a statement. The Timber Ridge Reporter was a leaflet compared to the Washington Daily Chronicle.

  Her gaze fell to a placard in the window she hadn’t noticed before. On it was listed the hours of business. She read it and smiled. Closed on Fridays? How could a newspaper office be closed on Fridays? No matter the day, the Chronicle’s multi-office, four-story building was always abuzz. Even on Sundays—though she normally didn’t adhere to working that day, unless she was far behind.

  Taken by the quaintness of this little town, she continued on to the general store and was almost to the back counter when she would have sworn she was staring at an apparition.

  Standing there transfixed in the middle of the aisle, draped from head to toe in black, the woman resembled a portrait of a Southern belle Elizabeth remembered seeing hung in Mathew Brady’s art gallery. An invisible hedge encircled the dark-haired woman, and people in the store went out of their way not to brush the ebony lace of her full-tiered skirt or interrupt in any way the air that seemed to lay in quiet folds about her.

  Elizabeth attempted to do the same. But when she glanced at the woman’s face, she found herself unable to look away.

  The woman was stunning, but it wasn’t her beauty that so commanded Elizabeth’s attention. It was the grief veiling her features that Elizabeth found so hard to turn away from.

  Until the woman met her stare.

  Elizabeth forced her gaze elsewhere, embarrassed at having intruded upon something that felt so intimate, while not understanding what it was she’d intruded
upon. “I’m here to see if my medicine has been delivered.” She heard the explanation coming from her mouth but didn’t remember granting the words permission. “It should have been here days ago.” What was this overwhelming need to explain herself to this lady? She looked back.

  The woman’s eyes were wide set and watchful, and Elizabeth found herself imagining them as they’d surely once been—a luminous sparkling blue, instead of dull and near gray.

  “We have a doctor newly arrived to Timber Ridge.” The woman’s voice came out soft, like a petal opened prematurely before the final frost. Yet Elizabeth understood every word. “He hails from New York, I’m told.”

  Elizabeth found herself nodding. “I didn’t know that. I’m . . . new to town.”

  “I know.” Something surfaced in the woman’s expression and removed a layer of grief, if only for an instant. “I’ve heard about you.”

  Elizabeth didn’t have a response for that.

  The woman’s arms rested gracefully at her sides, skimming the delicate fabric of her skirt while leaving no impression on the folds. Were Southern women taken aside at a young age, to a hidden parlor, perhaps, and taught how to stand with such a regal air that it appeared as though they were not so much supporting their own weight as they were being held aloft by invisible strings? Everything about this woman was graceful, yet she exuded a tension that was nearly palpable.

  Perhaps the other patrons in the store felt it as unmistakably as Elizabeth did and that was why they kept their distance. Perhaps Elizabeth should’ve done the same. She was searching for something else to say when she heard the woman take in a sharp breath.

  “Forgive my boldness, but . . . would you agree to come to my home and photograph my sons?”

  It took a moment for the unexpected request to register, and for its subtle desperation to sink in.

  Elizabeth had photographed only one child before, and that endeavor had not ended with success. The child wouldn’t cooperate, refused to remain still. Other photographers were able to talk to children in singsong voices or cajole them with entertaining noises that bewitched them as the seconds passed, so the glass plate could be fully exposed. But not her.

  It was absurd, really, but she wasn’t at all at ease in the company of children. They made her nervous. She never knew what to say to them or what to do. And when they smiled she couldn’t help but think it was at her expense. Her reaction was a throwback to less-than-fond memories of childhood but was real nevertheless.

  The woman’s black-gloved hands knotted at her waist. “I would be willing to compensate you, of course.”

  Elizabeth rushed to correct the misunderstanding. “No compensation is necessary, ma’am. I’d be happy to do it.” She gave a soft laugh. “But I feel compelled to tell you that I’m not gifted in relating to children, so the end result may not turn out as you desire.” Her mind skipped ahead to obvious questions—had this woman lost a child and therefore wanted images of her remaining children? Or was it her husband she mourned?

  “Mrs. Boyd?”

  They both turned at the man’s voice. Ben Mullins, the proprietor, had moved from behind the counter and was holding out a bag. “Here it is, Mrs. Boyd.” Mullins smiled at her. “It’s not much, but I can order more—you just say the word.”

  Mrs. Boyd took the bag and drew herself up, squaring her shoulders as though she were about to enter battle. From the gauntness around her eyes and the pallor of her skin, it looked as if she’d already endured one.

  “My thanks, Mr. Mullins.” She swayed for a second, as though the task of remaining upright was demanding her last ounce of strength. “I’m sure this will be fine.”

  Mr. Mullins’s expression held compassion. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am. Tell your boys hello for me. I stuck a few gumdrops in there for them. Hope you don’t mind. Lyda insisted on it. She’s always been partial to your sons, as you know. Just like I have.” His voice fell away. “They remind us so much of our own.”

  One side of Mrs. Boyd’s mouth trembled as though she were trying to form a smile but had forgotten how. She bowed her head, and Mr. Mullins shifted his attention.

  “And about your order, Miss Westbrook . . .”

  Elizabeth blinked at the sound of her name.

  “Your shipment finally arrived, ma’am. I’ll get it from the back.” The blue-and-yellow gingham curtain guarding the doorway leading to the storeroom wafted at his passing.

  “Seems you won’t be needing our new doctor after all.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the faint whisper beside her. “No, it doesn’t seem so.” Not yet, anyway.

  The woman’s task seemed complete, yet she didn’t turn to go. The thought was absurd, but Elizabeth briefly wondered whether the woman’s boots were nailed to the floor, she was so still and unmoving, like a child who’d been told to stay put and wait to be gathered.

  A man walked into the store, drawing Elizabeth’s attention, and everyone else’s, it seemed. His hat nearly brushed the top of the doorframe as he passed beneath it, and he paused just inside as though searching for someone.

  When his gaze settled on Mrs. Boyd, Elizabeth noted a subtle change in him.

  He walked in their direction, speaking to everyone he passed without exception, addressing each man, woman, and child by name. If first impressions counted for anything, Elizabeth guessed him to be an official of Timber Ridge. Perhaps the magistrate or mayor, though she’d never seen a mayor so well loved as this man apparently was, so she decided on the former. Protectors of justice inspired adoration like few others.

  “Rachel . . .” He touched Mrs. Boyd’s arm, and the imagined nails in the woman’s boots loosened.

  She leaned into him. “Thank you for coming back for me.”

  He kissed the top of her head and cradled it as he might have a child’s. “The boys are in the wagon. We’ll head home now.” He tipped his Stetson in Elizabeth’s direction. “Miss Westbrook, we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance, ma’am. I’m James McPherson, sheriff here in Timber Ridge.”

  Silently congratulating herself at having guessed correctly, Elizabeth peered up at him. More than just a hint of the South lingered in his voice, like another man she’d met recently. “The pleasure’s mine, Sheriff. And should I be impressed or frightened that you already know my name?”

  “Neither, ma’am.” His soft laugh was convincing. “I just consider it part of my job to know who’s coming and going through town.” He considered her as he slipped an arm around Rachel Boyd’s shoulders. “You’re from our nation’s capital, and from what I’ve observed, you have a particular interest in photographing our mountains. An uncommon pursuit for a woman.”

  “Very good, Sheriff. And yes, I do nurture a love for photography. It’s a hobby I’ve studied for several years.”

  “James . . .” Rachel looked between them. “Miss Westbrook has agreed to come to the house and photograph Mitchell and Kurt.”

  Brief surprise lit his face. “Well, that’s a fine idea. My nephews are good-looking boys, Miss Westbrook. I think your camera will take to their likenesses real quick, if they’ll sit still long enough for you to catch them.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find some way to persuade them.” Although Elizabeth had no idea how. She’d agreed to the request only for Rachel Boyd’s sake. Being in the company of someone grieving made people promise things they might not otherwise, in hopes of easing their pain.

  Rachel reached out and grasped her hand.

  Taken aback, Elizabeth stole a look at the sheriff, who seemed as surprised as she was.

  Rachel’s grip—not really a handshake, more like a clasping—was gentle and womanly, so different from what Elizabeth had worked to develop with her male peers. “I admire you, Miss Westbrook. It takes courage to leave your home and come to a place like this. And then to offer to share your gift with us . . . expecting nothing in return.”

  The tears in Rachel’s eyes promp
ted a weight to settle in Elizabeth’s chest. She silently accepted the praise while knowing herself unworthy of it. She’d hardly come to Timber Ridge expecting nothing in return.

  Rachel was delicate in every way that Elizabeth was not. Her flawless ivory complexion, the way she moved—even her features seemed to have been crafted by a smaller, more skillful hand. And not a corkscrew curl on the woman’s head. Elizabeth had always felt ill at ease around such women. Until now.

  Rachel squeezed her hand one last time before letting go, and seemed to come closer to remembering how to smile before once again abandoning the effort.

  Sheriff McPherson gently held Rachel’s arm. “At your convenience, Miss Westbrook, please stop by the sheriff ’s office. It’s just two streets over, on the right, and we’ll arrange a day for me to escort you out to the house.”

  “I’ll do that, Sheriff. Thank you.”

  Elizabeth followed their progress out the door and then walked to the front window and watched Sheriff McPherson assist Mrs. Boyd into the wagon. As they drove away, she spotted two redheads over the wall of the wagon bed but couldn’t see the boys’ faces. The wagon rounded the corner at the far end of the street.

  The kindness in James McPherson’s face coupled with the strength of his stature made for an odd, but powerful, combination. Especially for a lawman in such an untamed territory. If she’d been the melting type, she might have considered it a few minutes ago, but she had yet to meet a man who even came close to sweeping her away. Her career had become her companion and was filling that place inside her, satisfyingly so.

  Tillie’s oft-repeated mantra about the wisdom of remaining single came to mind. “It takes an awfully good man . . . to beat no man at all.” Elizabeth had been well into womanhood before comprehending the meaning of the saying, but life’s experiences had proven the counsel trustworthy.

  It didn’t erase the loneliness she still sometimes felt, especially late at night, but it made it more bearable when she imagined being wife to one of the many ambitious soldiers who had vied for her affections, at least on the surface. In reality, most had been vying for a higher rank through an alliance with her father. A painful truth, but one that she’d accepted, and learned from.