Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (43 page)

She shrugged. “In case you’ve forgotten, I, of all people, know what it’s like to have ulterior motives. I was hurt when I first found the letter, but after I thought about it, I realized that what you did was no different than what I did when I first came to Timber Ridge.”

“But that’s just it.” He gestured to the letter. “I didn’t agree to take you for this reason.”

“Are you about to tell me that you did it because you couldn’t stand the thought of being without my company?”

He laughed softly, appreciating her wit. “Actually . . . that motivation came sometime later. But it
did
come. My real reason . . . was James.”

“James?” She eyed him.

“He helped me through a difficult time after the war, most of which you know about . . . Benjamin’s death, my addiction. I owed him a debt—a big one—and when he asked me to take you to Mesa Verde as fulfillment of that debt, I agreed.”

She scanned the letter again. “So it wasn’t because of this?”

“I give you my word. I started, several times, to tell you about my writing these letters, but I was—”

“Afraid I would think that the only reason you agreed to this was so that I would help you petition Congress and use my father’s influence to do it.”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“But as it turns out, had you not owed James that debt . . . you wouldn’t have taken me.”

“No,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t have. But if it makes any difference, I’m glad now that I did.”

“Hellooo . . . the camp!” Josiah returned, Beau trotting alongside him, and Daniel didn’t have to wonder why he’d called out. He’d felt Josiah looking between him and Elizabeth this past week, just as he was doing now. “Pretty evenin’, you two. You best take a walk b’fore dark and enjoy it.”

Appreciating the suggestion, Daniel rose. He faced Elizabeth and bowed at the waist as though at a grand cotillion. “May I have the honor of escorting you this evening, Miss Westbrook?”

She smiled and took his hand. “I would be most delighted, Mr. Ranslett.”

They walked down the path, aspen trees clustered on either side, and Daniel covered her hand tucked in his arm. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope you’d join me in presenting this petition to Congress. I’d appreciate using your photographs, and benefiting from your obvious influence, but only if you decide this is something you want to be a part of.” He paused on the trail, the camp no longer in view. “I won’t bring it up to you again, Elizabeth. When we get back to Timber Ridge, you can give me your answer. My goal won’t change. I’ll still pursue this on my own. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she answered softly, and squeezed his arm.

“Now, about that
other
conversation. I know you think that what I did in the war—shooting defenseless men—was cowardly and without honor, but if I could—”

“What you did, Daniel, killing from a distance, was no different than what my father did. He used tactical measures and wartime strategies instead of a Whitworth rifle. Is there any difference? The result was the same. Except my father’s actions killed or wounded over nine thousand men and boys . . .” She moved closer to him. “Among them, your precious brother. . . . And that was just in Franklin, in a five-hour battle. No wonder my father chooses not to speak of the war anymore and of the battle that night. He wants to forget it as much as you do, but he can’t. Neither of you can.”

Daniel touched her face. Her skin was so soft.

“I have no idea why my father was called from Tennessee to Washington that morning, but I have a feeling, and I know I could be wrong about this . . . but maybe God knew you and I would meet, and that if we’d had that between us . . .” She shrugged and looked away, her vulnerability showing. “If we had such a thing between us, then maybe we wouldn’t have—”

He pulled her to him, and Daniel wasn’t certain who held the other tighter. He kissed the crown of her head, aching inside for her, and for what it would have cost them if he
had
killed her father that day, and if they’d met now, later in life. How different things would have been.

He drew back and saw her tears. He wiped them away. The way she looked up at him, the gentle yet assertive way she touched him . . . He caressed her face, then dug his hands into her thick curls and tilted her face to meet his. He kissed her full on the mouth, feeling her response. Her eagerness stirred him, and he did his best to banish whatever doubt might linger in the corners of her mind about his reasons for wanting to be with her.

38

D
aniel guided the Boyds’ wagon across the ridge overlooking town, and Elizabeth was amazed at how civilized Timber Ridge appeared. Not surprising when she’d spent the last three months sleeping in caves, huddling in a tent, or sleeping beneath the stars.

They had returned from Mesa Verde last evening and spent the night with James and Rachel. Rachel had been subdued in Daniel’s company, but at least she’d managed to stay in the same room with him, though they didn’t speak. As they’d all sat together at breakfast, Elizabeth remembered what Josiah had told her at Mesa Verde—that people were what made the difference. He was right.

It wasn’t achievements, however rewarding those could be. It wasn’t a career, however necessary earning a livelihood was. And it certainly wasn’t fame. What did it matter if people knew your name and yet never really knew who you were? When she whittled her life down to the essentials, to the most important moments, when she imagined what it would be like to stand in the last few seconds of her life and look back in retrospect, it was
people
that mattered most.

And the man sitting beside her now meant more than all the others.

Their last night on the trail, Daniel and Josiah had talked about Tennessee and Franklin, and she’d made a vow to herself that, regardless of what happened between her and Daniel, she would make a journey to that town and that battlefield. To the place of her father’s
supposed
greatest victory. To the place where Daniel’s and Josiah’s lives had been changed forever and where so many men—both Federal and Confederate soldiers—had sacrificed themselves. The thousands of lives had not been “lost” as was so often said. They had been laid down in honor, for family and country.

Daniel reached over and covered her hand on the bench between them. “After we’re done in town, I’ve got something I’d like to show you. If you have time this afternoon.”

“It depends on what that something is.”

“I’d rather not say for now. Let’s let it be a surprise.”

Though not certain, she had a good idea of what it was and decided to test the waters. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing where you live. . . .” She glanced behind her in the wagon bed. “May I bring my camera?”

“Sorry, ma’am. But I don’t allow photography.”

His smirk gave him away, telling her she’d guessed correctly. He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her closer to him on the buckboard, and her thoughts went to where those of a single woman best not linger overlong. He’d shaved that morning after many days of not shaving, but had kept the mustache and a close-cut beard. She liked it on him. Watching him, she wanted nothing more than to share herself and her life with this man.

He brought the wagon to a halt in front of the Mullinses’ store and jumped down. “James said he told you the photograph you wired the
Chronicle
about never arrived.”

“I’ll send another telegram to Goldberg after I check for my mail. Then I’ll take the wagon”—she raised a brow—“and meet you at the boardinghouse.”

“Can I trust you to find your way there without me?”

“Have I proven nothing to you in recent weeks, Mr. Ranslett?” She withdrew the compass from her reticule and held it up. “I’ll never lose my way again.”

“Not that I’ll give you the chance.” He winked and untethered his mare from the back. “And for the record, you don’t have to prove anything to me, Miss Westbrook. I’m already sold.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue and urged the mare on down the street.

Once inside the store, Elizabeth approached the mail counter. Ben Mullins was sorting mail, and she cleared her throat to get his attention. “Any mail this morning for a Miss Elizabeth Westbrook of Washington, D.C.?”

Mullins turned, and a grin lit his face. “Miss Westbrook! Nice to see you again, ma’am. Hope your trip to Mesa Verde was a safe one, and successful.”

They spoke briefly, and then he disappeared into the back and returned with a stack of envelopes. “I’ve got several pieces for you. Some of them came a while back.”

Seeing two from Goldberg and two more from her father, she excused herself and went outside to read them on the boardwalk, starting with her father’s. He’d received the photograph of her “students” and was quite complimentary but questioned why “their teacher” hadn’t been photographed along with them. She didn’t look forward to telling her father the truth, and yet she looked forward to the truth being told. His next letter inquired whether she’d received the shipment of school furniture, which she had. Last night James had mentioned it had arrived soon after they’d left for Mesa Verde. She would write her father today and let him know.

Checking the dates on Goldberg’s envelopes, she started with the oldest one first. His handwriting had gotten worse. Either that or she was out of practice deciphering his scrawl. She scanned the letter dated April thirtieth, only days after she’d left on her trip.

“Photographs you have sent are spectacular . . . look forward to making the journey myself someday . . .”
And the remainder was an update on marketing ideas they had discussed before she’d left Washington. Since implementing them, it seems the
Chronicle
’s circulation had grown by twenty percent. Impressive, and the shareholders’ board was ecstatic.

She opened the second letter, dated the third of June.

I am growing alarmed at your silence . . . remains to be seen on the position . . . eagerly awaiting your photographs of the cliff dwellings . . . trust you were able to arrange the expedition . . . since you have not responded to my telegrams—

Elizabeth looked up.
Since you have not responded to my telegrams . . .
She frowned. He hadn’t sent her any telegrams or she
would
have responded. She finished reading.

Received your last photograph . . . cannot imagine your shock at coming upon the body . . . outstanding article . . . people will be moved . . . which translates to more sales, our primary concern . . .

Frustrated by more than one thing in his letter, she folded the deckled stationery and headed to the telegraph and newspaper office, leaving the wagon in front of the store.

She needed to send the telegram and deliver the photographs of Mesa Verde to Drayton Turner—whom she wasn’t looking forward to seeing again. James said he’d been asking if she’d returned yet and was eager to publish more pictures. She’d not spoken with Turner since the night Josiah was beaten, but both Daniel and James had concluded that Turner’s newspaper article had nothing to do with the attack.

Though she didn’t approve of Turner’s tactics, the people of Timber Ridge deserved to see the beauty of the Colorado Territory, and as Josiah said, perhaps seeing the majesty of Mesa Verde and learning that Ute ancestors had built it would help townspeople to see the current-day Indians in a more favorable light.

From the boardwalk, she spotted Turner’s assistant seated behind the counter in the newspaper office. Elizabeth smiled as she opened the door.

“Good morning, Miss Westbrook.” The young woman laid aside an envelope.

She’d only met the girl once, and it was so long ago Elizabeth couldn’t remember her name. Thankfully a nameplate on her desk provided assistance. “Hello, Miss Cantrell. How are you today?” She saw no sign of Turner, which suited her just fine.

“I’m well, thank you. Is there something I can help you with?” Miss Cantrell rose from her desk, where mail lay scattered.

“I’m here to drop off some photographs for Mr. Turner.” Elizabeth handed her the envelope. “I take it he’s not in right now.” His desk in the back sat vacant.

“No, he’s not, but I’ll be sure and give this to him.” She set the envelope aside. “Miss Westbrook . . .” Shyness crept over the young woman’s face. “Ever since I learned about you being a reporter for the
Chronicle,
I’ve—”

“I’m actually an assistant.” Elizabeth softened the correction with a smile. “The
Chronicle
doesn’t employ female reporters . . . yet. But I hope that changes in the very near future.”

Her expression brightened. “So do I.”

“Well, thank you for giving this to Mr. Turner. If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a telegram sent.” She turned.

“I really admire you for what you’re doing out here. Taking photographs, traveling to those cliff dwellings. It sounds so exciting.”

Elizabeth glanced back. She detected admiration in the woman’s eyes and—not really wanting to spare the time—retraced her steps. “Thank you, Miss Cantrell. I feel very fortunate to be doing what I’m doing. It’s taken me a long time to get here, but the journey has been worth it.”

“I hope to become a journalist one day.”

Elizabeth had gathered as much.

“I know I’ll need to start out like you, as an assistant. But then I want to write my own articles. For a big newspaper in New York, or maybe Boston.”

Nodding, Elizabeth had the uncanny feeling she’d been insulted somewhere in the midst of that compliment.

“When you have time, Miss Westbrook, would you consider looking at some articles I’ve written? I’ve shown them to Mr. Turner, but he doesn’t seem to think too much of them. I’d really appreciate your input, as another woman, on what I could do better.”

Aware of Miss Cantrell’s true intent, Elizabeth also remembered the many people who had helped her along the way. And the numerous run-ins she’d had with male hypocrisy. “I’d be happy to read your work sometime, and I’ll look forward to—”

“I’ve got them in my desk at home.” Miss Cantrell skirted around the counter. “I only live one street over. Wait right here and I’ll run get them for you. I appreciate you doing this for me!”