Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (25 page)

A fading April sun sat wedged between the Maroon Bells, their highest peaks towering over Timber Ridge. A chilling wind swept down from the north, quaking the newly budded aspen and reminding her of how quickly the weather could change in the mountains.

Several people stood waiting, among them a man Elizabeth assumed to be the doctor, since he was the only other person soaked to the bone. Dr. Brookston was indeed young looking, perhaps a few years her junior, and handsome, in a dashing sort of way.

Daniel’s beagle ran to greet his master, and the first pair of eyes Elizabeth connected with were Josiah’s.

With a broad smile, Josiah ducked his head as he approached. The front of his shirttail was stained with her blood. “You done gave us a scare, Miz Westbrook. You doin’ all right now?”

She smiled up at him, her emotions raw when remembering what they’d discovered in her room at the boardinghouse. “I am. Thank you, Josiah, for all you did.”

He waved away her thanks. “I jus’ carried you to the doc’s. It was him and Mr. Ranslett here”—something flickered in Josiah’s eyes before he glanced down at Ranslett, who was slipping on his boots—“who knew what to do and gots you over here.”

“Miss Westbrook . . .” Sheriff McPherson tipped his hat. “It’s nice to see color in your complexion again, ma’am. I hear pale skin is all the rage back east, but the pallor of your face when Ranslett carried you in there . . .” He shook his head.

Ranslett stood and gave a casual nod, but she sensed something more intimate in his gaze. “That was a mite too high fashion for my taste too, ma’am. If you don’t mind me saying.”

“For mine too, I would imagine.” Elizabeth felt a lick on her hand and reached down to rub Beau’s head. “I’m most grateful to you, Dr. Brookston, for your quick action. And to you too, Mr. Ranslett, for your . . . thoughtful assistance.”

Dr. Brookston gave a gentlemanly tip of his head, while Ranslett merely shrugged.

“It was nothing, ma’am.” A wry smile tipped Ranslett’s mouth. “Once the doc went inside, Sheriff and I just drew straws.” A glint deepened his green eyes. “Mine came up short.”

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Sheriff McPherson.

“Ranslett’s being far too modest—while also seeking, I’m sure, to protect my . . . fragile reputation. You see, ma’am, I . . . ah . . .” McPherson toed the dirt with his boot. “I can’t swim. Tried to learn when I was younger. My best friend growing up tried his best to teach me, but . . .” McPherson shook his head, glancing at Ranslett. “Water and me don’t get along real well. Never have.”

“Well, after all these years, that finally explains the smell around here,” a man said from the back.

“Watch it there, Lewis.” Sheriff McPherson’s tone became worthy of his office. “I’ve got three empty cells around the corner. I might have to haul you in for disturbing the peace.”

That drew more laughter, and slowly the crowd began to disperse.

But the comment from the gentleman made Elizabeth self-conscious about the smell on her clothes, and on her skin. The sulfur water had a distinct and . . . none too pleasant odor.

Black leather bag in hand, Dr. Brookston bowed slightly at the waist, his black hair plastered against his head. “I’ll also take my leave, Miss Westbrook. But I’d like to examine you in my office . . . after you’ve changed into some dry clothes and had a chance to eat something.” He gently took her hand and turned it over. The gash appeared puffy and red but thoroughly cleansed. And had stopped bleeding, for the time being. “We must have lost the bandage in the hot springs. This will need a few stitches, but we’ll see to that when you come.”

She rubbed her arms, grateful for Ranslett’s shirt. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be over shortly.”

The setting sun illuminated a dark bank of grayish-purple clouds in the west. Perhaps Ranslett was right about the snow after all.

A coat came about her shoulders. Ranslett tucked it close beneath her chin. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and pick it up.”

Smiling her appreciation, she pulled the lapels closer and caught a whiff of seasoned leather and of something spicy, a decidedly male scent. Fresh scratches on his arms drew her attention, and stirred the vaguest recollection.

Sheriff McPherson followed her gaze to the marks. “Looks like Miss Westbrook put up a fair fight in there, Ranslett.”

She winced. “Did
I
do that to you?”

“It’s nothing that won’t heal. I’m fine.” He shot a weak grin at the sheriff. “She’s stronger than she looks—that’s for sure. And that’s meant as a compliment, ma’am.”

McPherson scoffed. “If that’s your idea of a compliment, Ranslett, you need help in that area.”

Listening to their banter, Elizabeth got the feeling she’d under- estimated their connection. “My apologies, Ranslett. But when I can’t breathe, I tend to get a little . . . worked up.”

“If what happened back inside there was you being ‘a little worked up,’ then I’m not sure I want to be around when you’re really riled.”

She laughed, aware of how Ranslett’s gaze swept her, from head to toe, in none-too-hasty a fashion, before settling again on her eyes. He had a way of smiling that made her wish she knew his thoughts, while also making her think she might blush blood red if she did. Something about the man fanned a flame inside her. How often had she prided herself on not being the swooning type? But apparently a tiny part of her still knew what it felt like to melt over a man. Thankfully, it wasn’t a part that showed.

“Miss Westbrook . . .” The sheriff ’s tone had shed its humor. “I’d like to accompany you back to the boardinghouse to see your room. I sent word to Miss Ruby and asked her to leave things exactly as they were until I could take a look.”

“Yes, Sheriff, of course. I’d appreciate your doing that.”

“I think I’ll take my leave, ma’am.” Ranslett tipped his hat. “Dry clothes sound pretty good about now.”

“Mr. Ranslett, sir.” Josiah stepped up, having been unusually quiet. “I tied your horse up behind the doctor’s for safekeepin’. ”

Ranslett eyed him. “I appreciate you thinking to do that. Thank you . . . Josiah.”

Elizabeth looked between the two men, wondering if Josiah sensed what a step that was for Ranslett. Somehow she thought he did.

She and McPherson walked back to the boardinghouse, Josiah following them. As they rounded a corner, a chilling wind hit her full in the face and she shivered. Thoughts of what awaited at the boardinghouse brought a host of emotions to the forefront. Not the least of which were disappointment and anger. Who would have done this? And why?

“This may sound strange, ma’am, especially since you’re newly arrived to Timber Ridge, but . . .” The sheriff assisted her up the stairs to the boardwalk. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do this to you? Or why?”

Her laugh was without humor. “That’s just what I was wondering.” Faces of people she’d met since coming to Timber Ridge flitted through her mind. And one by one she dismissed them all. If they were back in Washington, she could think of a couple of people who might feel strongly enough against her and her association with E.G. Brenton, but that was a world away. And even then, she was only Brenton’s assistant in their eyes. “Everyone I’ve met here has been so kind and welcoming. I don’t think I’ve been here long enough to make any enemies.”

“Don’t necessarily think of whoever did this as being an
enemy,
ma’am. Chances are pretty good you’ve met the person, that you’ve spoken with them in Mullins’s store or here on the boardwalk. Think of it in terms of anyone who might have wanted something from you. Or who was looking for something. Did you notice anything personal missing when you first saw your room?”

She bit back an unexpected retort. Why was it people never understood how personal her equipment was to her? How much of
her
was wrapped up in it? Aware that McPherson had intended no offense, she let it pass.

“Everything was in chaos, Sheriff, as you’ll soon see. I didn’t have time to determine if anything was taken, but I’ll look through the chifforobe to be sure. That’s where I keep my money, my clothes, and what jewelry I have.”

Reality quickly set in—regardless of the answers to the
who
and
why,
she had no equipment left. It would take a month or more for glass plates and chemicals to be ordered from back east and to arrive in Denver. A new camera would have to come from the American Optical Company in New York City and would be a special order. And very expensive. She had saved for months to pay for that camera. Having one had been a prerequisite to her being considered for this new position at the
Chronicle.

Considering her remaining funds, the likelihood of meeting her deadlines—much less pursuing her dreams—was quickly fading. She had a better chance of winning a footrace across the Rockies than being named the
Chronicle
’s next journalist photographer.

Hearing the thread of her own thoughts, Elizabeth suddenly felt selfish and petty. Here she was, alive and breathing, when by all accounts she shouldn’t have been. She had much to be thankful for yet couldn’t dismiss the underlying feeling of loss.

They arrived at the boardinghouse, and McPherson held open the door. “Mr. Birch, would you be so kind as to wait here? I’d like to speak with Miss Westbrook alone. But I’d appreciate speaking with you shortly as well.”

“Yes, sir, Sheriff. I wait right here for you, sir.”

Elizabeth and McPherson climbed the stairs to the third floor and the door to her room came into view. Foreboding moved through her, starting at the base of her spine and inching its way upward. She paused.

She’d promised to keep Wendell Goldberg abreast of her progress, but this wasn’t something she could report to him. No, telling him this would be admitting defeat, and that was something she couldn’t do. Not to him or her father. Not even to herself. Not yet. Not until she was aboard a train back to Washington, failed career and bruised pride in tow, would she relinquish hold of this dream.

God had put the seed of this ambition in her heart ages ago, and to return to Washington with anything less than that position as hers would feel as if she were giving up on herself, and Him.

23

E
lizabeth stood still in the hallway, light-headed, staring at the door to her room, not wanting to go back inside.

“You okay, ma’am?” McPherson touched her arm.

“I think so.” Her right hand ached and she cradled it with her left, noticing a tremble in both. The sheriff was with her. She had nothing to fear. “I’m just tired, and a little hungry.”

“I promise I won’t keep you long.”

McPherson took the lead. He started to turn the latch, and paused. “Are these yours?” He indicated the crates Josiah had left in the hallway.

“Yes, they arrived earlier today. Josiah was bringing them up when we discovered what had happened inside.”

Nodding, he opened the door and slowly pushed it back as if to get the full impact of the scene all at once.

The lamp on the bedside table cast an orange halo on thousands of tiny glass fragments littering the bed, the rugs, and the hardwood floor. A chemical odor lingered, but thanks to an open window, it wasn’t nearly as strong as before.

“Was the lamp burning when you left, Miss Westbrook?”

“No. I assume Miss Ruby lit it, but I’m not sure.”

His boots crunched on the shattered camera plates as he walked the length of the room and back. He sniffed. “Do you smell that? Something bitter.”

She tried to detect the scent and couldn’t. “All I smell are the chemicals. But I may just be accustomed to them.”

His gaze traveled the room. “They sure tore up your equipment, but did it in a neat fashion, compared to how they could have done it—using the bedclothes and your dresses to cut down on the noise. . . . But it looks like that’s all they did. I don’t see any damage to the furniture, to the room. Just your camera and what went along with that. Tell me . . .” He didn’t speak for a moment. “Yesterday you said that you believe Josiah to be a man of outstanding integrity and character. What do you actually know about Josiah Birch’s background? Where he’s been and what he’s done?”

Elizabeth’s heart did a painful flip. She swallowed, feeling a strong urge for a cup of tea. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Sheriff.”

“I’m just asking if you know what manner of man he is.”

“Are
you
questioning what manner of man he is? Look at what he just did for me. He saved my life.”

McPherson walked to where she stood, his expression open and sincere. “I’m just asking questions, Miss Westbrook. Trying to learn more about your situation so I can fit things together, try to help you. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.” His brows slowly rose in question.

She firmed her lips together and nodded once. “I met Josiah when I first came to Timber Ridge, only three weeks ago. But I would vouch for his character as I would other men I’ve known the better part of my life.”

He gave her an appraising look. “Once someone wins your confidence, Miss Westbrook, seems they’ve gained a strong ally.”

“That may be true. But be assured, Sheriff . . . my confidence isn’t something easily won. Be that to my credit, or otherwise.”

That patient stare of his again. Not condemning, not pardoning. Just assessing. Finally, he blinked. “I’d say that’s to your credit, ma’am.” He bent and picked up a piece of splintered wood. “Is there anything left of your equipment that’s salvageable?”

She removed Mr. Ranslett’s coat and laid it aside but kept on his shirt. She was eager to change into dry clothes, but it was important she survey the damage, and being out of the wind, she wasn’t nearly so cold now. She spotted a protective plate holder half hidden beneath the washstand and retrieved it. The slender wooden box was bent back, its hinge sprung, yet the wood hadn’t splintered. “This can be mended.” She handed it to him, and then her gaze fell to the edge of the bed.

She stooped and pulled out a box from the shipment Mullins had received late last week.

He knelt beside her. “What are those?”

She opened the box, mildly encouraged. “Fresh camera plates. At least they spared these.”