Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Page 8

  He remembered the night the boys had given him the pictures, two weeks before their father, Thomas, was killed. He hadn’t seen them or their mother since then—except from afar, at the funeral—and he hadn’t seen their uncle in a while either.

  Thinking of home and family, he was reminded of the debt he still owed James McPherson. Though things between him and McPherson had become strained and they hadn’t spoken in months, he stood by, ready to repay that debt whenever McPherson called it in. The man had saved his life, in so many ways.

  He lay down on the bed again and pulled the blanket up over his chest. Beau hopped up beside him and snuggled close, contributing his warmth.

  Nights like this made Daniel wish he could ask McPherson how he’d managed to start living again. How he’d gotten to the place where he didn’t wake every morning having relived a battle like Chickamauga, where Daniel had been wounded. Or the terror on the battlefield that night in Franklin, within miles of his childhood home. Daniel closed his eyes and could still see row after row, layer after layer, of mutilated bodies—nine thousand of them, piled on top of each other so that the dead were left standing with no room to fall. The earth drank in their blood until its thirst was slaked and it could hold no more, so the ground pooled the precious sacrifice in hastily dug holes the soldiers had clawed out, seeking refuge and finding none.

  Realizing sleep was futile, he threw off the covers. He filled the coffeepot with water and hung it on the hook in the fireplace, then lit the oil lamp on his desk and set out his quill and paper. Congress had yet to respond to any of his letters, but they couldn’t ignore his requests forever. Surely he’d gain someone’s attention if he kept writing. Sometimes he felt like the lone voice in a wilderness, but someone needed to stand up for this land and for the Utes’ sacred cliff dwellings. Otherwise the heart of the Colorado Territory would be pillaged and lost forever, just as his beloved South had been.

  To make matters worse, he couldn’t seem to convince land developers that he didn’t want to sell his land—any of it—to any company. Frankly, he didn’t much care how his decision would affect the “expanding economy” of Timber Ridge, as Zachary at the title office tried to persuade him. In his experience, most folks tended to think they needed a lot more to get by on than what it actually took.

  He poured a cup of coffee and settled at his desk. Only a couple of hours remained before he needed to head back down the mountain. He was actually looking forward to visiting Mathias and Oleta Tucker and their family. And spending time in Elizabeth Westbrook’s company was higher on his list than he’d thought it’d be.

  The woman was obstinate, opinionated, and he doubted whether the word satisfied was even in her vocabulary. But she would be a welcome distraction after the night he had just endured and would provide a nice buffer in case things at the Tuckers’ were strained. But the best thing—Elizabeth Westbrook didn’t have the slightest connection to him or his past in any way, which was what he needed. Someone who wouldn’t remind him of what he’d done during the war, of what he’d once been.

  He picked up the quill, dipped it, and began to write.

  9

  This ’bout it, Miz Westbrook.” Josiah retrieved the last satchel of supplies from the corner, sweat glistening on his brow. “We ready to go soon as Mr. Ranslett shows.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Josiah. I’ll be right down.”

  The satchel Josiah carried wasn’t overly heavy, but he had already made five or six trips up and down the two flights of stairs. She really needed to find another place to stay. Either that or find a safe location where she could store her equipment and develop her photographs. Her room was coming to smell of chemicals, and Miss Ruby had kindly commented about that fact again this morning when delivering her tea.

  Elizabeth took care in wrapping the camera lens in a soft cotton cloth before slipping it inside her pack. It was the single most expensive piece of equipment she owned and she hadn’t the means to buy another. She could replace about everything else, but if this lens were to break, her dreams of winning the job would be broken too.

  “What you doin’ with all these books, ma’am?”

  Josiah held up a McGuffey Reader, and she cringed, having intended to reseal that crate.

  He’d carried three crates up to her room for her last evening, and at the time she’d been under the impression they’d all come from the same company and contained glass camera plates, chemicals, and other supplies she’d shipped from Washington. But as she opened them alone later, she realized her father had seen fit to send her a crate of supplies as a “welcome gift” of sorts.

  Telling Josiah the truth about the books meant risking his being disappointed in her. And though it might have sounded silly to some, she didn’t want him thinking less of her. She waved off his question. “Those were shipped to me in error.” Which was partially true. What was also true was that she was responsible for that error.

  “Want me to tote ’em on back to the store for you?”

  “No, no, that’s not necessary. We can take care of them later.”

  “Suit yourself, ma’am. Too bad we don’t got us a schoolhouse here in town.”

  Josiah’s steps retreated down the hallway and Elizabeth let out a sigh. Well, that answered one of her questions. She’d hoped the town had a school. It would’ve made her father’s request a little easier to fulfill.

  She reached for the letter and ran a hand over the broken seal on the back of the envelope. Her father was such a stickler for the details. This particular seal bore the imprint of the United States Congress and gave insight as to his frame of mind when he’d penned the missive.

  She skimmed the page, taking comfort in the familiar slant and formality of his handwriting. She noted the date of the letter’s authoring—three weeks ago. Hardly a week after she’d departed Washington. Sooner than she would have guessed he would write.

  My Dearest Elizabeth,

  First and foremost, I pray this letter finds you, and then I pray that it finds you well. I have had occasion to ponder the map on my office wall and cannot quite fathom the miles that separate us. I pray you are finding the rest you need and that the air in those Rocky Mountains is as medicinal as our physician said it would be.

  While my desires voiced to you the night before your departure remain unchanged—I would have you happy and fulfilled, preferably here in Washington—I understand this desire within you to stretch your horizons, as you so stated, and to discover what difference you might make in the world. It is not unlike what has long driven my own pursuits.

  To that end, I am having a crate of slates and readers sent to your attention. All newest editions, of course. Additional teaching supplies will arrive at a later date, as I can arrange for them. Senator Wilkes, Director of Education, is indebted to me, and I will lean upon his good favor for your benefit. If Timber Ridge, Colorado Territory, is to have its first teacher, then they will have one supplied with the finest curriculum available. Which will no doubt be of higher quality than such a wilderness has ever beheld.

  I look forward to receiving a photograph of you with your pupils, as I have no doubt you are still making time for the hobby you have so long esteemed.

  Your father, both near and far,

  Colonel Garrett Eisenhower Westbrook

  She ran a finger over the dried ink on the elegant stationery, lingering over her father’s signature, and closed her eyes. Guilt over her swiftly told falsehood retraced the miles she’d worked so hard to put between her and that particular evening.

  She loved and respected her father and had fully intended to tell him the truth. She had entered his study the night before her departure, resolute to share everything—and had done just the opposite. She’d known in that moment what it must have been like for the hundreds of men who had once served beneath her father’s command. The pressure to please him was overwhelming, and that he inspired that desire not from fear of him or his disapproval but from simply wanting to
reach the aspirations he held for you . . . Well, that made her want to succeed in her endeavor here even more.

  She read a particular line for a second time.

  If Timber Ridge, Colorado Territory, is to have its first teacher, then they will have one supplied with the finest curriculum available.

  A teacher.

  That’s what she’d told him she was coming out here to be. He’d questioned it only briefly, having already seen the advertisements in the Chronicle for teachers needed out west. She’d wanted to confess her true reason for heading west, but he’d never been supportive of her working at the Chronicle, much less her striving to be a photographer and journalist. Those were men’s jobs and therefore unsuitable. It wasn’t that he thought her incapable of doing them. That wasn’t the issue. There were simply roles for men and roles for women, and those lines were not to be blurred.

  She’d known he wouldn’t approve of her teaching career, but he would object far less to that noble profession than he would the truth.

  She slipped the letter back into the envelope, then into the desk drawer, and drank the last of her tea. At thirty-two years old, one would think she would’ve outgrown the need for her father’s approval. Was she not capable of deciding her own future? Of course she was. So why did part of her still feel like that little girl with mud-splattered curls standing outside the horse stables, cringing beneath his stern frown while longing for his affirmation?

  She checked her pack to make certain she’d included a full bottle of medicine and locked the door behind her.

  Thinking of the crate of books up in her room, she was able to see a glint of humor in it all. A shipment of teaching supplies was on its way from Washington to Timber Ridge, and the town didn’t even have a school.

  She reached the boardwalk and spotted Josiah waiting across the street at the butcher’s shop per their discussion, but she saw no sign of Ranslett. She checked her pocket watch—thirty-five past eight. She was early—a by-product of being raised with a military father. He was a stickler for punctuality.

  She thought again of how Ranslett had left her standing in the store. He wasn’t late . . . yet . . . but in the event he’d changed his mind about taking her today, she and Josiah would make the short trek back to Maroon Lake, where they’d been yesterday afternoon, and she would finish taking photographs there. So their preparation this morning wouldn’t be in vain.

  She stood there for a moment, debating a quick errand, and then decided to chance it. She told Josiah where she was going, then cut a path down the street. To her delight, the office was lighted inside and she saw a man in the back.

  She opened the door, knocking as she did. “Hello?”

  As he drew closer and she got a better look, she guessed him to be Drayton Turner, the editor of the Timber Ridge Reporter. Who else would be working when everyone else was not? And would be wearing such a scowl?

  He met her at the front counter, hardly looking at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re not open for business until nine o’clock.”

  His brusque manner was familiar and sparked an unexpected urge within her to be back in the throes of the bustle of the Chronicle offices. And why should she expect a newspaper editor in the Colorado Territory to be any different from one in Washington? They were an odd breed, editors, but a breed she understood. “Yes, I realize that, sir, and I didn’t mean to bother you. I was hoping to pick up the most recent edition of your newspaper.”

  Recognition flitted across his face. “You’re the photographer. I’ve seen you around town.” His scowl softened. “A photographer is a welcome addition to Timber Ridge.”

  She could well guess why he felt that way. She’d seen his publication. Not a photograph to be found. But that was no excuse for her to act pretentious. “Yes, I am. Photography is a hobby I’ve studied for several years. Couple that with a fascination with the Wild West”—she said it with enthusiasm and widened her eyes—“and here I am.” Aware of him watching her, she waited to see if he would buy the “coming west for adventure” slant.

  Slightly taller than she, he was balding on the crown of his head but boasted a healthy stand of black hair elsewhere. Rather than increasing his years, the look gave him a distinguished quality that he carried off well. Thankfully he wasn’t one of those men who grew his hair longer on one side and swept it across to the other to compensate. One of the reporters at the Chronicle did that, even adding a little twist on the top, for whatever reason, and he was forever being ridiculed by his peers behind his back. Though the habit was amusing and only drew more attention to what he was trying to hide, Elizabeth had always found it uncomfortable when the jesting turned to him.

  “I admire that kind of courage, ma’am. Especially when I find it in a woman. I’m Drayton Turner, editor of the town’s newspaper, the Timber Ridge Reporter. I own this building and am working hard to get Timber Ridge up with the times. We have a telegraph office, if you haven’t noticed.” An elitist air slipped into his voice and told Elizabeth all she needed to know.

  “Elizabeth Westbrook. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. And yes, I was recently in the telegraph office.” It was all she could do not to mention it wasn’t working. No need in getting off on the wrong foot. She extended her hand.

  He looked momentarily bemused by the gesture, then shook her hand. “And you as well . . . Miss Westbrook?”

  She nodded, answering his none-too-subtle question.

  He reached to a stack on a nearby table. “Here’s a copy of our latest edition. We publish every Monday and Thursday morning. But with the town’s growth, I’ve been considering going to a larger format. Either that or going to a more frequent publishing schedule.”

  If Goldberg had handed her something like this, he would have been offended had she not read it right away. So she skimmed the front of the single sheet publication in half a minute, then turned it over, nodding as she scanned the back. She’d always been a fast reader.

  “So, what do you think of it, Miss Westbrook?”

  His tone cradled the real question. He wasn’t asking for her opinion as much as he was asking for her praise, and she couldn’t fault him for it. It was a loathsome dependence she shared. Every other Monday when E.G. Brenton’s article hit the stands, she couldn’t wait to frequent the local restaurants and shops in hopes of overhearing comments. The more positive the better.

  “Your publication is very . . . informative, Mr. Turner. And well laid out on the page. Do you do your printing on site?” She decided it best not to mention the four misspellings she’d found.

  His laugh was indulgent and his expression patronizing. “If my guess is right, and I’m rarely wrong in this regard, my little newspaper is none too impressive to someone like you, Miss Westbrook. Let me see if I can guess correctly . . . New York City?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, seeing more similarities between him and Goldberg by the minute. Both were intelligent, capable, self-assured men—who wore their egos on their sleeves. The last character trait wasn’t an admirable one, but it certainly made reading the men easier. The only difference she could detect was that Turner was younger, and significantly more attractive.

  He held up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me.” He smirked more than smiled. “Washington?”

  “Very good.” Though not hard to decipher. “But I’ve spent quite a bit of time in New York, so you weren’t too far off there either.”

  Feigned yearning thinly veiled his envy. “I’m impressed, Miss Westbrook. I’ve never been to New York City. Came close once, but then my—” The confidence behind his smirk faded. “Let’s just say that my circumstances changed. I’ll bet being out here seems a world away to you, barbarous in comparison to what you’re accustomed to.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You can be honest, ma’am. We’ll consider this conversation . . . off the record.”

  The statement made her go tight-lipped. How many times had she used that same phrase only to quote the person
verbatim the following morning under the guise of an “unnamed source”? Once Goldberg had inserted the person’s real name, against her wishes but at the insistence it would have been wrong not to expose the source. She hadn’t agreed, but since E.G. Brenton’s name was on the article and not hers, she hadn’t had to deal directly with the aftermath. But as E.G. Brenton’s “assistant,” she’d lost a trusted source.

  She used care in phrasing a quote-worthy response while thinking up a reason to leave. “On the contrary, Mr. Turner, I’ve been impressed with the beauty of Timber Ridge and its surroundings. Already I can tell that good, decent people live here. New York City may be exciting in many ways, as is Washington with its political climate, but neither of those cities has anything like your Rocky Mountains.”

  He chuckled softly. “Well done, Miss Westbrook. A truthful answer that deftly skirted the heart of the question. With such skill you ought to run for town council. Or better yet, come work for me!”

  She joined in his laughter, hoping hers sounded natural, and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have another appointment this morning, but I thank you for the newspaper.” She opened her reticule. “How much do I owe you?”

  “No charge, ma’am. Just consider it a ‘welcome to town’ from the Timber Ridge Reporter. And . . .” His expression turned decidedly less businesslike. “Feel free to stop by anytime. Perhaps I might persuade you to take some photographs for the Reporter. I’ll publish them and list your name right alongside. Imagine it . . .” He punctuated the air as he spoke. “Elizabeth Westbrook, Female Photographer!”