Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Page 7

  She studied the faces of Timber Ridge residents as they passed by on the other side of the window. Some she recognized, though she had yet to make their acquaintances.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m just checking to see if those sights your husband ordered for me came in yet.”

  She recognized the voice instantly—just one aisle away—and peered over the shelf.

  “And if you have some gumballs, would you add those to my order too? A box of them, please, ma’am.”

  Elizabeth waited until Lyda Mullins left to fill the order before she quietly sidled up to the counter, knowing her presence would be about as welcome to this man as an invitation to attend one of her suffrage rallies.

  8

  Gumballs, Mr. Ranslett? Somehow I didn’t peg you as a man with a sweet tooth.”

  A faint grimace crossed his face when he saw her, but that was all the reaction she earned. “Miss Westbrook . . . I didn’t see you when I came in just now.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Well, if that’s not the most honest response I’ve gotten in a while, I don’t know what is. But that’s all right, Mr. Ranslett. I’ll take honesty over pretense any day. Blunt is so much better. Saves everyone time.”

  He stared at her for a beat. “At least that’s something we see eye to eye on, ma’am.”

  He’d apparently bathed, because the wild smell from yesterday was gone, replaced by something still earthy but very pleasant. Either that or it had been the elk all along.

  Ben Mullins returned. “Miss Westbrook, I’ve got a question for you.” He gestured for her to follow him off to the side, then leaned closer. “I’m not sure that company sent the right thing. They sent bottles of syrup, like you said, but”—his voice lowered as he held out the bottle—“they’re labeled for children, ma’am.” His brows rose. “With teething problems?”

  Elizabeth shot a look at Ranslett to see if he was listening, but he didn’t seem to be paying her any mind. She couldn’t explain why, but she did not want to be seen as physically weak in front of him and therefore didn’t want him knowing that she took medicine. Everything about the man screamed strength and control, and she wanted to give the same impression.

  His gaze settled on something in the corner behind her. Curious, Elizabeth turned, and quickly ascertained the object of his stare. Angled against the wall was a mirror, and from her vantage point she could see his image from the chest down. Just as she reasoned he could see hers—from behind.

  As a test, she reached behind and smoothed a hand over her bustle. He quickly glanced away. She turned back, hiding her smile, and kept her voice soft. “They shipped the right medication, Mr. Mullins.” Seeing as the proprietor would be receiving future orders, she decided it best to tell him. “My physician in Washington prescribes this particular syrup for my lung ailment. I’ve taken it for several months now, and it’s actually working quite well. Even if I’m not the manufacturer’s intended consumer.”

  “Well, whattaya know . . .” He adjusted his glasses and read the label to himself, his lips moving silently. He nodded, and continued in their conspiratorial tones. “Lots of folks with breathing problems end up out here. Colorado’s air is good for the lungs, ma’am, has healing properties. So do our hot springs, they say. There’s a spring not far from the boardinghouse where you’re staying. You should try it out sometime.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, and I fully intend to do just that.”

  “You’ve got three big crates in the back too. Came fragile packed. Must be the glass plates and chemicals you told me about.”

  It tickled her the way he was still whispering. “I’ll ask Josiah to pick them up this afternoon, Mr. Mullins.”

  “No rush—whenever is fine. If I see him first, I’ll let him know they’re here.” He held up the bottle. “I’ll go get the rest of these for you.”

  Mullins retreated, and Elizabeth stole a furtive glance beside her. Ranslett was watching her directly now, innocent looking as could be. Debating for only a split second, she stooped low enough to peer back at him in the mirror. “See anything interesting a moment ago?”

  Expecting a sheepish look, she didn’t get it.

  A rogue’s smile tipped his mouth. “When a woman wears a bow the size of Texas on her backside, she ought not be surprised if it draws a stare or two. You said we were supposed to be blunt. Right, ma’am?”

  Elizabeth clenched her teeth to keep from laughing, but she couldn’t prevent a smile. “Most certainly. That’s exactly what I said.”

  His gaze swept her dress. “Just don’t wear that thing when we go hunting. Bright colors don’t blend in, and they tend to scare off the prey.”

  So he did intend to keep his promise about taking her hunting. That was good news. “And I suppose not shaving for days on end and wearing buckskin like a native attracts them?”

  A dimple appeared in his stubbled right cheek. “I don’t know that I’d recommend that for you, but it seems to work for me fine enough.”

  It sure did, but she wasn’t about to agree. “Exactly when are you planning to take me on this hunting trip, Ranslett?”

  His brows shot up. “First time I’ve had a woman call me by my surname. Is that part of this . . . progress you were telling me about yesterday?”

  “Are you evading my question?”

  “No, ma’am. How about tomorrow?”

  She sobered, excited at the prospect. “You’re serious?”

  His smile deepened. “I am. I’ve got somewhere to go first thing in the morning, but I can take you up to—”

  “Our agreement was to a full day of hunting, Mr. Ranslett. Not an afternoon.” She already planned on using the trip as the basis for a column, recounting the experience for the Chronicle readers, spicing it up some if she needed to so that it would appeal to game hunters.

  He did that sideways thing with his mouth again. “Are you always this demanding, Miss Westbrook?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  He exhaled. “Best to know at the outset, I guess.”

  She ignored the gleam in his eyes. “What time do we leave?”

  “How about I meet you at the butcher’s shop at nine? It’s right across from your boardinghouse.”

  “And just how did you know where I am staying?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t have any problem finding you.” With a nod, he indicated her dress. “You don’t exactly mix in with the rest of the folks around here.”

  Mrs. Mullins laid his bill on the counter. He read it, put down his money, then hefted the box of sundry items, a box of gumballs balanced on top. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  “And here are your items, Miss Westbrook.” Ben Mullins made the necessary change from the bills she handed him. “Sure is an interesting thing you do, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, I find it intriguing. It’s a hobby I’ve studied for several years.”

  “Lyda and I would like to have you over for dinner this Sunday, if you’re available, to hear more about it, and to get to know you better. You might consider setting your camera up some Saturday in the store here too. I know people in town would pay to have their pictures taken, if that wouldn’t be something you’re opposed to.”

  She was taken aback by his kindness and interested in his offer. “I’d appreciate both of those opportunities, Mr. Mullins. Thank you very much. Until Sunday, then . . .” She moved to lift her box, but Ranslett beat her to it. She caught up with him halfway down the aisle. “I’m quite capable of carrying that myself, you know.”

  He stopped and turned. “Did you hear me say you weren’t?”

  So soft was his voice, so neutral his expression, she knew he’d meant nothing by the gesture. He was just being mannerly. She felt awkward in the moment and somehow put in her place by his kindness. Her defenses rose accordingly. “I just want to be clear that I don’t expect you to do those kinds of things for me.” She glanced at the box. “I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

  He stared, his express
ion inscrutable. Then he adjusted the crates in his arms. “Thanks for making that so clear for me.” Without a word, he deposited her box in her arms and walked out the door.

  She’d underestimated the weight and dropped her envelope of photographs in order to balance the load in her arms. She stared at Ranslett’s back, half amused, but mostly annoyed that he would just dump the box in her arms and leave. She quickly glanced around to see if anyone had overheard their exchange.

  Two women nearby moved away, while a man standing down the aisle a ways made straight toward her. He was rough looking and lacking refinement, the sort she’d seen when passing by the gaming hall in town. She couldn’t believe he was coming to help her.

  She glanced down at the envelope. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your assistance.”

  But he didn’t move. And from the thick bulge in his cheek, he was enjoying a distasteful pastime. “Out here, ma’am, we appreciate a woman who knows her place, and who remembers what that means. And who don’t go traipsin’ round town flauntin’ some nigger on her arm.”

  Elizabeth’s body flushed. She worked to keep her voice calm. “I know very well who I am and what my place is . . . sir, as I can clearly ascertain what sort of man you are.”

  His actions portended what was coming. The dark spittle landed squarely on the envelope. And with a parting glare, he turned and strode from the store.

  Elizabeth saw Lyda Mullins approaching. Flustered, embarrassed, she glanced down at the man’s parting gesture. “I’m sorry about what just happened, Mrs. Mullins.”

  Lyda patted her arm. “Don’t you worry about it at all, and it’s not you who needs to be apologizing.” She retrieved the envelope and wiped it with a towel. “I appreciate what you’re doing here in Timber Ridge, Miss Westbrook. I think it’s mighty brave.” Her smile was short-lived but genuine. She tucked the photographs inside the box. “Here’s a letter that came for you this morning too.” She slipped it in as well. “You take care now, and Ben and I are looking forward to Sunday lunch. Come about noon, if you want. Or earlier and go to church with us.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’d like that.”

  She secured her grip on the box and continued down the aisle, peering to the side so as not to trip over anything and draw further attention to herself. She expected to find Ranslett waiting outside on the boardwalk and searched for him first in one direction, then the other. But he was gone.

  Daniel awakened in a cold sweat, his flesh crawling. He bolted upright in his bed, blinking in the darkness, not sure where he was for a moment, only that the wraiths that haunted his sleep were pressing especially close tonight.

  Beau whined and nudged closer, and Daniel ran a hand along the dog’s back, gaining a measure of calm from the softness of his fur. He took in a lungful of air. Then another. This had been a bad one. Despite the many battles he’d lived through, two in particular reigned over his dreams—the night Benjamin had followed him . . . and the battle at Chickamauga he’d just dreamed about.

  Passing years hadn’t dulled the images. Lowering his face into his hands, he remembered everything—the smell of smoke from the Federals’ campfires a mile away, and the pangs of hunger gnawing a hole in his belly.

  The misty haze of a Georgia dawn had lain lightly on the northwest mountains, and trees stood stark and naked in the gray light, stripped by an early frost. His right cheek flush against the barrel of his newly requisitioned Whitworth, Daniel searched for his target in a sea of Federal blue. He’d practiced with the firearm but hadn’t used it in combat yet—if these assignments they gave him could rightly be termed “combat.” They were certainly part of the war and always ended in a death. Always. So he guessed they qualified just fine.

  His superior told him that this gun, with its special sights, could accurately shoot a target up to a mile away. Even farther if you were really good, which he was.

  The leafless branch at his back acted as both support and reminder of his lofty perch, and he blew into his hands, trying to warm them, loosening up the tendons. Temperatures had dipped low during the night as he’d dozed below with his regiment, slipping from wakefulness to sleep and back again. But long before dawn the cold had finally dispelled any hope of rest, and he’d risen to climb to his perch.

  His stomach growled and he tried to ignore the pangs. His rations were gone. They’d stripped the bark from trees and had used water from the creek to make a bitter drink. It had done little to satisfy his belly and had only invited the chill deeper inside him.

  No fires allowed—Major’s orders—which made smelling the smoke from the Federals’ camp that much harder. He had no socks, and the leather soles of his boots had worn through in spots, but at least he had boots. Most of the men in his unit didn’t.

  The cold steel of the Whitworth felt like a branding iron against his cheek, and he took a breath, held it, then exhaled, feather-closing his left eye in order to sharpen his focus. He secured his target, over a mile away, and watched the man through the crosshairs.

  The colonel sat astride a bay mount, double rows of polished brass buttons lining his decorated uniform and glinting in the pale morning sun, easily distinguishing him from the lesser-ranking officers and soldiers standing nearby. Down to the last man, each Federal soldier gathered round their commander looked warm and well fed, and he couldn’t help but envy them for that. But he didn’t envy what awaited them on this side of the ridge—the Tennessee Army, crouched and ready to strike.

  He snugged the trigger with his index finger, patient for the right angle. He’d only get one chance. Minutes passed, and he could feel the eagerness of his regiment awaiting his lead. Relax, steady breaths. He whispered a prayer, and fired.

  In an instant, the world changed.

  Stricken, the Federal colonel clutched at the hole in his chest even before the blood soaked his uniform. Through his sights, Daniel watched the commander fall headlong from his horse, a split second before the report of the rifle reached the Federal camp, though Daniel doubted the man heard.

  But the colonel’s men did, and they acted quickly. Confusion engulfed their camp, according to plan.

  His assignment complete, Daniel sheathed the Whitworth and began his downward climb just as an eerie screech rose from the densely wooded hillside beneath him. One voice lifted at first, followed by another and another, until the unearthly, primal chorus flooded the forest floor and rose in a fearsome swell over the pike. His spine tingled with the chill of it, familiar though it was, and he wondered how any enemy could hear the rebel yell and not shudder.

  Below him, his regiment pushed through thick stands of pine and prickly bramble until they crested the ridge. Eager to join them, Daniel had started to climb down when he heard a faint high-pitched whistle. It cut through the cacophony. He sensed it more than heard it and might not have done that much had he not had such experience with it on the opposite end. He placed the sound an instant before the bullet slammed into his back.

  The force knocked him belly first over a limb, and he dangled there, suspended, momentarily blinded by the fire scorching his back and right shoulder. Distant gunfire registered and impulses collided inside him.

  Strangely weightless, he hung there, able to make out the faint outline of someone climbing up to him. He heard his name being yelled.

  Another distant whistle, similar to the first, and Daniel pictured his mother’s face, regretting that he hadn’t gotten back home in the past two years. The bullet hit somewhere to his right. The branch on which he hung cracked and gave way. He lunged at lower limbs in hopes of slowing his descent but couldn’t get a hold. The bark stripped the flesh from his palms, and somewhere on the way down, he had blacked out.

  Pushing the memory from his mind, Daniel climbed from bed and strode to the cabin door. He stepped outside into the crisp, cloudless April night and took a lungful. The moon cast a pewter spell over the mountains, and the chill felt good against his bare chest.

 
He breathed deep, trying to cleanse himself of the nightmare. Judging from the moon’s position, it was somewhere between two and three o’clock. Ice crystals blanketed the blue spruce and lodge pole pines, and in the distance the low roar of the waterfall girded the night’s busy silence.

  His face was cold, and reaching up, he realized his cheeks were wet. He wiped them and stepped farther out into the small clearing. A trillion stars blinked down at him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if they were portals to heaven, as his mother had told him when he was a boy. And if Benjamin was watching.

  On nights like this it gave him comfort to think his youngest brother and his mother were together. That comfort swiftly fled when he considered that all of his family was now there, together, and he’d been left on this earth alone. For what reason? To what purpose? None that he could figure. God had simply forgotten to take the last Ranslett, and Daniel sorely wished He hadn’t.

  In that moment, he would have given all he owned to have been back in Franklin, walking the familiar hills of home, of his childhood, before the war had pillaged the land and taken his family.

  Beau’s whining from the doorway encouraged him back inside. Daniel shut the door and knelt down. He scruffed Beau behind the ears, grateful for the desire to please his master that shone in the dog’s big brown eyes. Odd, but Daniel found himself a bit envious of Beau. For so long he and his Master had been at odds with each other, something that hadn’t been true earlier in his life. He didn’t know about God’s feelings on the subject, but he was growing weary of the feud. Part of him wanted to try and mend things, but how could he when the only One who could have intervened that night, who could have saved Benjamin . . . hadn’t?

  He crossed the room and stoked the fire. Sparks flew up the rock chimney he’d laid by hand. Pencil-drawn pictures hung above the mantel took him back to better days. Mitchell Boyd had drawn the first—a picture of Daniel hunting. Daniel’s body was as big as the mountain and his rifle just as tall, and on his face was a wide grin. Daniel found Kurt’s picture more sobering. Again, it showed a child’s rendering of him, but this time he stood over a bear sprawled flat on the ground. The bear wore a sad countenance. Which Kurt had explained, “That’s because he’s dead. You just killed him because you’re the best hunter in the territory.”