Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (17 page)

“You’ll see, Miss Westbrook, that the drawings list the name of the owner and date of purchase. Wherever there’s an
X
, like right here”—Miss Carter tapped the paper—“that indicates the location of a hot spring on the property.” She flipped to a map in the back. “And if you see this symbol here”—she pointed to a series of three short wavy lines—“that indicates a waterfall of some significance on the premises.”

Even better . . .
“Thank you, Miss Carter. This is quite helpful.”

After several minutes, and with Miss Carter’s assistance, Elizabeth isolated a map that contained what she thought would be the prime areas of interest to the
Chronicle
’s investor. “Here . . . this one.” She smoothed a hand over the crinkled paper and pointed to a large area filled with straight horizontal lines. “What is this?”

“That indicates a substantial area of minor-surfaced terrain. Or in other words, it’s flat.”

Elizabeth nodded. Perfect place for a hotel. And hardly a stone’s throw away were three large wavy lines and numerous
X
s. Unfortunately, the waterfall and hot springs fell on the opposite side of a dark property line. She pulled a pencil and paper from her reticule and jotted down the name of Travis Coulter, the man who owned the property suitable for a hotel. Then she slid her gaze across the bottom of the map to read the second name. Only to realize there was no need to write that one down.

The landholder was Daniel Ranslett.

15

M
iss Carter tapped the collection of maps. “Someone else was in here looking at these recently. I remember now because of . . .” She glanced around, then leaned close. “The feud.”

Elizabeth perked up. “The feud?”

“Well, it was more of a disagreement, really.”

Elizabeth waited. That normally did the trick.

“The story goes”—Miss Carter’s voice lowered—“that Mr. Coulter wanted to sell to a land developer from New York City. But the developer wasn’t interested in his land without also acquiring”—she peered at the bottom of the page—“Mr. Ranslett’s property. So the deal didn’t go through. From what I heard coming from Mr. Zachary’s office, Mr. Coulter wasn’t pleased.”

“Do you happen to recall the land developer? The name of the company?”

The woman shook her head. “I could ask Mr. Zachary, though. I’m sure he has record of it.”

“Oh no, no, don’t bother him. I was just curious.” All she needed was to raise Zachary’s suspicions again. Elizabeth wanted to ask if she could borrow the maps but knew that was out of the question. That would take Mr. Zachary’s approval for certain. “I think I’ll just study these for a minute, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’ll check back with you.”

Elizabeth pulled another piece of paper from her reticule and began sketching. She drew a crude map outlining how to get to the land, then went back and inserted the various relief markings along the way to help navigate and identify the path. The surveyor had been extremely thorough. A thought occurred, and she questioned Miss Carter when the woman returned. “Is the location of the owner’s residence marked on the maps?”

Miss Carter looked more closely. “Sometimes they are, if the structure was in existence when the surveyor plotted the land,
and
if the surveyor remembered to mark it. Ah . . . you’re in luck with this one.” She pointed. “Mr. Coulter’s dwelling is here. And let me check for Mr. Ranslett’s. Mmmph . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t see any . . . Wait! Yes, I do. Here it is. It’s faded on the map, but you can see the outline of a square. That indicates a dwelling of some sort.”

Elizabeth had a hard time containing her excitement. More than likely, Ranslett had tried to erase the marking at some point. As she hurried to her appointment with Mr. Hawthorne, Elizabeth had fun imagining Ranslett’s expression if she were to show up on his doorstep, and knew she was drawing attention as she giggled her way down the boardwalk.

Elizabeth eyed the man across the table from her. He was not someone she would readily call a gentleman. In appearance, Mr. Hawthorne—the man who had answered the advertisement to lead her expedition—seemed a rough sort. A
backwoodsman
is what her father would have called him. Savvy about life in the wild but not about much else, she suspected. Perhaps time would tell . . .
if
she hired him to be her guide.

He leaned close over the map spread out between them on the table. “This is where you’re wanting to go, ma’am?”

“Yes, Mr. Hawthorne. You’ve traveled the San Juans extensively—is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been all over these mountains. Beautiful country. Peaceable enough with the natives these days too.”

“Natives? Would that be the Ute?”

“Yes, ma’am. There’s Ute. But I was speaking of the Cheyenne. They’ve been warrin’ again recently.”

He drained his fourth cup of coffee and, starting at the dot that marked Timber Ridge on the map, traced a path with his thick forefinger and trailed southwest to the location Elizabeth had marked at the bottom—the cliff dwellings discovered by William Jackson last fall.

“Just give me a minute here to work through the timeframe you gave me, coupled with where we’ll be going. . . .”

As he considered the information, she ticked off items in her mind. She’d mailed an envelope of pictures to Goldberg that morning and had confirmed that her telegram from the previous week had finally been sent and acknowledged. In the envelope for Goldberg, she’d also included another article she’d written late last night following her Sunday meal with Ben and Lyda Mullins, a delightful couple. She’d been surprised to learn of the tragedy in their earlier lives, and hearing about it had only confirmed what Ranslett had said to her about these mountains. Not that she hadn’t believed him, but hearing of the Mullins boys—lost so young, and their parents’ pain still raw after all these years—made it more real.

“What did you say you’re paying me, ma’am?”

Elizabeth schooled her reaction to the premature question. “I haven’t said yet, Mr. Hawthorne, because we haven’t discussed terms of salary. In part, because I’m waiting for you to present your recommendations, as requested.”

He leaned to one side in his chair, reached behind him, and pulled a wad of documents from his back pocket. He deposited them by her plate.

“There you go, Miss Westfork. I think they’ll read to your satisfaction.”

“It’s West
brook,
” she gently reminded, for the second time. Noting the limpness of the papers and their discoloration, she lifted them by a corner.

“There’s three in all, like you asked for. Two of the fellas live here in Timber Ridge. The other hails from Missouri, so you’ll need to wire him if you want his second word.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. I’ll do that.” She unfolded Hawthorne’s letters, trying not to imagine what had contributed to the dark stains lining their edges. She only hoped it was something as innocent as tobacco juice, as disgusting as that was.

She wished again that Daniel Ranslett hadn’t been so set against the idea of guiding her trip. But he had been, and there was nothing she could do to change his mind. She reviewed Mr. Hawthorne’s letters of recommendation. Definitely written in a different hand, each of them, she noted the qualities each letter listed—honest, reliable, hardworking, dependable. Had been guiding parties for a number of years. “Your letters seem to be in order.”

“You feel free to check with any of those men. They’ll stand behind what they wrote.”

Hawthorne was able and willing. Add to that, the calendar pages were flipping by almost faster than she could count. Wendell Goldberg expected photographs of those cliff dwellings no later than the end of summer.

“So we have us a deal, ma’am?”

She’d known Hawthorne’s type before and had managed fine. The key was to never let him forget who was boss. “Yes, Mr. Hawthorne. We
have us a deal
—pending the substantiation of your references. If they prove to your benefit, I’d like to leave no later than the first of May.”

Stating it aloud made it seem more real, and imagining the adventures that lay ahead sent a buzz of excitement through her. Not to mention the affirmation from her colleagues that would accompany the special publication of her photographs in the
Chronicle,
perhaps followed by a showing to display her work, similar to an event she attended three months ago in New York to honor Mathew Brady.

As she walked back to the boardinghouse later that afternoon, she imagined her father attending such a gala event, with her as the honoree
.
And the image brought a smile, but only a fleeting one. Much remained to be conquered between this moment and that. Namely, making the journey to Mesa Verde.

She wanted to write about the adventures to be experienced in these western territories, certainly. But to do that well, she needed to live them. And she was ready!

“You still gots your mama with you, Miz Westbrook?”

“No, I don’t. She died when I was five.” Elizabeth stopped on the trail and checked her map again. She wished she’d taken more care to capture all the relief points as she’d copied the details to Travis Coulter’s place from the surveyor’s tedious rendering. “Do you think this is the right way?”

Josiah peered back at her. “I ain’t the one that drew the map, ma’am. But I can read one, and this is the way your paper says. Look there . . .” He pointed upward to a snowcapped mountain peak. “That there’s the South Maroon Bell. And this one here”—he pointed to the other white-crusted peak vaulting up by it—“it’s the North. We done traveled them both in the past two weeks. You don’t recall that?”

“Of course I recall it. I know the names of these mountains. I just don’t know where I am right now.”

He looked at her as if she’d grown a third eye. “The way you drawn it, which I’s hopin’ is right—” He gave a fatherly dip of his chin. “It says we been on this man’s property for a while now. We should find his cabin over that ridge a ways. Why we up here anyway?”

“I . . . I want to take photographs of Mr. Coulter’s land. I heard from someone in town that it’s very pretty.”

He blew into his hands, still holding Moonshine’s reins. “Well, whatever we doin’, we best hurry. Snow comin’ in soon.”

“But there aren’t any clouds.”

“I don’t care. I just tellin’ you that in my bones I feel snow comin’.”

Elizabeth tugged her coat sleeves down as far as they would go. The temperature gauge outside the boardinghouse had read approximately forty-five degrees when they left. It didn’t feel much colder than yesterday, but there was a moistness to the air today that chilled her from the inside out. At least she wasn’t having any difficulty breathing. She had been drinking the herbal tea religiously and had taken to adding a dash of extra syrup to each cup. That along with this Colorado air seemed to be doing the trick.

They’d ridden a good hour and a half from town before coming to the cliff that marked the turnoff on the map. As customary, they’d left their horses at the bottom of the trail and had started on foot. She wriggled her numb toes in her boots.

“I mourn you losin’ your mama so young, ma’am. It’s a hard thing growin’ up without knowin’ your roots. And who it was you come from.” His breath hung like a fog before disappearing. “Why you out here like this? Young woman like yourself, doin’ what you’s doin’? I bet your papa worries ’bout you. Your mama too.” He glanced upward. “From her perch on high.”

Elizabeth smiled at the personal nature of his question. “I used to study pictures of faraway places. I’d hear stories people told about their travels, what they’d seen and what they’d done, and I would wish I could have those same experiences. Then one day, I realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life just hearing and never doing. Or living the life someone else had planned for me. I wanted something more.”

“What you gonna do with all these pictures you’re gettin’?”

Elizabeth watched her pointed boots appear and disappear beneath her skirt as she hiked beside him. “I’m going to take them back to Washington and show them to other people so that they’ll know what this place is like.” She felt him looking at her but didn’t return his attention.

He made a sound like he’d just tasted something delicious. “Helpin’ others find their way. This a good thing you’re doin’, ma’am. A good thing.”

Culpability crept close in the lingering silence, and Elizabeth tried to think of something to say to fill the gap. The way he said it made her seem so noble, when she was anything but. Part of her wanted to tell him the truth about her coming here, but the greater part of her was afraid to for some reason.

“I’m guessin’ you and me’s more alike than we thought, Miz Westbrook.”

That brought her attention back. “And how’s that?”

“It was a paintin’ I seen of a place out here that first set my sights west too.”

“Really?” Relieved at the turn in conversation, her interest was also piqued. “What was the name of the painting?”

“Didn’t have a name that I recall. I seen it in a store window, years back now. Came back there every day just to look at it. I’d stand and stare at them colors. Never in my days had I seen land bucklin’ up so high in the sky. And the color of the water . . .” He let out a soft whoop. “They ain’t got no water that color back in Georgia, to be sure.”