Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (5 page)

People were bringing change to these mountains. Change he didn’t welcome. First the miners came, gouging and blasting a path to riches, leaving an ugly and indelible mark. Now opportunists from the North arrived, daily it seemed, promising to leave a similar legacy. Only they cloaked their business endeavors in the guise of progress, same as they’d done after ransacking his plantation and devastating his family. After crushing the South.

The woman before him lacked the grace and charm of a Southernbred lady, but she wasn’t wholly lacking in attractive qualities, despite the fatigue she wore. The color of her hair was fetching enough. A reddish-gold that captured the light and returned it. But the way she had it fixed . . . The masses of curls pinned tightly to her head reminded him of corkscrews—some long, others short—and they bobbed about her temples when she spoke, as though possessing minds of their own. And ornery ones at that. Not unlike their owner, it would appear.

Unbidden, an image came to him of what she might look like with that pile of curls unpinned and loosened about her shoulders. That would surely be an improvement, but as tempting an image as that created, that mouth of hers and where she hailed from canceled out any interest he might’ve pursued in another time and place.

Still, a good mother’s training tended to reach deep inside a boy, setting roots that held fast, even when that boy became a man.

He tipped his hat back an inch to make sure she could see his eyes and looked squarely into hers. “My apologies for any harm I’ve caused you, ma’am. It didn’t come by intention, I give you my oath.”

“How kind and considerate of you, sir.” Arsenic laced her pretty smile and dimmed her former beauty. “But your oath isn’t going to get me back my photograph.”

Why, the feisty little
—Daniel’s thought stopped short. Surely he’d misunderstood her. “Your . . . photograph?”

“Yes, my . . . photograph.” She repeated the word as though trying to mimic him, but he doubted his tone was that arrogant, nor his accent that foolish sounding. “I’d just captured an image of the elk when your rifle went off, causing me to drop the plate.” She motioned behind her. “The picture plate is broken. Ruined!”

All this fuss over a picture? His estimation of the woman slipped several more notches.

He glanced past her and spotted the wooden box balanced on a tripod. He’d seen similar contraptions back during the war. Photographers would swarm onto a field after a battle, like vultures scavenging a next meal. And their pictures of the wounded, or those begging for death to come, would show up early the next morning in newspapers or be found hanging in store windows. As if being there and seeing your childhood friends cut down, one after the other, hadn’t been painful enough. Some things weren’t meant to be made so public, and he didn’t understand others’ insistence that they should be. A photograph to remember wasn’t something he wanted—or needed.

“Ma’am, as I see it, there’s nothing much I can do about what you lost. I’d make it up to you if I could, but I can’t. You’ve made that more than clear.”

A storm moved in behind her eyes, but it was one he had no intention of weathering. A snap of his fingers brought Beau to his side. Daniel turned to go, aware of the murmur of conversation behind him. Knowing it wasn’t directed at him, he started down the path to his horse—and then heard the distinct clearing of a throat.

“Perhaps there
is
a way for you to make restitution after all . . . Mr. Ranslett.”

Daniel stopped midstride, already dreading the look that would surely accompany the woman’s uppity tone, and knowing full well whom to thank for her learning his name.

The Negro turned away, but Daniel would’ve sworn he’d caught the man smiling before he did. In the woman’s eyes, the storm had passed, but the steeled determination now in its place promised to be of no less trouble to him.

4

D
aniel Ranslett strode back toward her, his gait purposeful, his expression amusedly bothered, and Elizabeth readied herself for a spirited exchange. She enjoyed debating about as much as she enjoyed Tillie’s buttermilk pie.

One thing quickly became certain—she wanted to photograph this man.

Watching him, the memory of a mythological figure rose in her mind, born from a collection of stories her father had read to her at bedtime as a child. She could still recall many of the characters, larger than life, all of them, but the man who bore the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders stood out above all the rest. Atlas’s physical strength had been renowned, but what she remembered most from the story was imagining the
tired
written on his face, the sense of fatigue in his every movement as the author painted his plight, and how, even as a child, she’d felt sorry for him.

The man walking toward her now shared similar markings of strength—and weariness.

He was dressed in buckskin, and dark hair hung loose and thick at his shoulders. His jaw bearded and unkempt, he looked as though he’d been living in the wilds for weeks, if not months, and that alone earned him instant respect. After spending a day hiking and taking photographs in the Rockies, she couldn’t wait to return to the comfort and warmth of her room at the boardinghouse.

She might’ve thought him part native if not for the water green of his eyes . . . and that drawl. As soon as he’d spoken, his Southern heritage had bled unstanched. To say he was a simple-spoken man was undeniable, yet something about his manner kept her from thinking him simpleminded.

He stood straddle-legged before her, staring down, and Elizabeth fought the inexplicable urge to salute him. Much to her father’s chagrin, she’d mastered the finesse of a military salute long before she’d learned to curtsey, and something in Ranslett’s unassuming swagger and the way he carried himself goaded her to follow through. But she doubted he was the kind of man who would take that gesture kindly coming from a woman.

Which, heaven help her, just tempted her all the more. But if this man was her key to photographing the Ute people, as Josiah had whispered moments ago, she would refrain.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am?” His sharp features held suspicion.

Her right hand still itched to be raised, but she kept it stayed. “I said, perhaps there
is
a way for you to make restitution for your actions.”

He stared hard. “For
my
actions?”

When she nodded, his eyes narrowed in a way that might have intimidated her, had her father not tried the same tactic many a time. She’d mastered the return stare by the age of seven.

Ranslett did a funny sideways thing with his jaw, as though he were trying to size her up. “And just how might you propose I . . . make
restitution
?”

He said the word in such a way that she wondered if he knew what it meant. Yet she resisted the urge to explain. “Is it safe to assume, Mr. Ranslett, that there are
other
elk populating these mountains? Or have you slaughtered every living creature between here and Wyoming?”

The green of his eyes deepened, but not with humor. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I tracked that bull for two days in order to line up a clean shot. To make sure he’d suffer as little as possible.”

Surprising sincerity accentuated his features and threatened to soften her ire, but thoughts of her lost photograph kept it fueled. “Most impressive, I’m certain, but I’m not talking about killing another animal, much to your likely dismay. I’m talking about a photograph, Mr. Ranslett. My camera lens can capture images from a great distance, so there’s no need to get this close again, though that would be preferred if you could manage it. I would require an animal of similar size and grandeur, one that will impress.”

He removed his hat. His glance drifted casually to her left hand, then back again. “And just who is it that you’re trying so hard to impress, Miss . . . ?”

She narrowed her eyes this time, not caring for the tone he’d taken. To hear him speak with that deep voice and smooth languid drawl, like molasses slathered over bread hot from the oven, he sounded for all the world like a properly bred Southern gentleman.

But the
manner
in which he’d addressed her—that held no semblance whatsoever to the Southern charm witnessed from Georgian and Tennessean delegates she’d met at political gatherings. Perhaps her father’s assessment was correct—Southern charm was little more than oiled politeness and surface at best, a poor attempt by the lesser countrymen to garner favor with their victorious Northern cousins.

Still, she found herself unprepared for Mr. Ranslett’s presence close up. His eyes, observant and full, gave the appearance of kindness, despite their penetrating quality. And beneath the rough exterior, there was a sense of civility to the man, a tenderness in his manner. He carried himself with an assurance that resembled nothing of an attempt to impress. On the contrary, he gave the distinct impression that being in another’s company—hers in particular—was among the least of his desires.

And she still couldn’t decide which of the two smelled more like a wild animal—him or the bull elk.

“It’s Miss
Westbrook,
sir, and I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m simply trying to do my j—” She caught herself before completing the word. But not soon enough by the look on Ranslett’s face.

A smirk tipped one side of his mouth. “And just what exactly is your . . .
job,
Miss Westbrook?” He said the word as though he found it amusing.

Elizabeth felt her backbone stiffen yet held her temper in check. People always acted differently once they learned she worked for a newspaper. They grew more guarded, or depending on the situation, they sometimes stopped speaking with her altogether. For someone who’d never made friends easily, that part of working for the
Chronicle
hadn’t served her well.

But she hoped to change that in Timber Ridge—by giving townsfolk the opportunity to get to know her first. Wendell Goldberg had initially suggested the idea, stating that telling people she worked for the paper at the outset would only alienate them, hinder her assignment. Best to win them over first, let them think that photography was her hobby, and then tell them when she was ready. While it felt the tiniest bit deceitful, she saw the wisdom in his counsel and wanted to do whatever she could to better her chances of getting that position.

She raised her chin a degree, having learned a thing or two about negotiation from eavesdropping on political discussions outside her father’s office door. “You said you’d be willing to make restitution if you could, sir. And if memory serves, I believe you gave your word. Is that offer still on the table?” She paused, unsure from the set of his jaw whether this redirection would work. “Or is your oath of questionable worth?”

His smirk disappeared. He fingered the rim of his hat. “I can’t guarantee we’ll come upon anything, ma’am, but I’ll give you a day—
one
day—to see if we can scout out another elk. No promises. No guarantees. After that, my obligation will be seen to.”

She started to push for more, then decided his offer was enough. For now.

Feeling empowered, she held out her hand. It was a custom just beginning to take hold back east but was one she favored. Men shook hands with one another when agreeing to something, why not with women? “Shall we strike hands on the deal, Mr. Ranslett? Make it official?”

He stared at her, then at her hand, and took a half step back. “I don’t strike hands with women, ma’am. But I’ll honor my word—don’t you doubt it.”

Feeling slightly embarrassed, she attempted a good-natured huff. “Come now, Mr. Ranslett. I am a woman who—”

“You won’t get any argument from me there, miss. That’s something we can agree on, at least.”

His tone bordered on playful and caught her off guard, as did the mischievous arch of his brow. Unwilling to be deterred by some Southern yokel—no matter how impressive looking—Elizabeth summoned her resolve, her hand still extended.

“Surely you’re not shy of such a thing. A grown man such as yourself.”

“There’s not much I’m shy about anymore, ma’am. And I don’t say that to my credit. But striking hands with a woman . . .” He slipped his hat on and took his time in answering. “That’s one thing I’ll never do.”

Feeling the fool, Elizabeth slowly drew back her hand. “Very well. I suppose I’ve credited the South with more progress than it’s due.” She meant for the comment to sting, as he’d stung her pride, and saw from his darkened expression that apparently it had.

“If that’s your idea of progress, ma’am, then we define that word a mite different.”

“There’s probably a whole passel of things we’d define a mite different, if we studied it far enough.” She did a fair job of mimicking his twang, her years of working alongside men having sharpened her ability to respond in situations like this.

Ranslett studied her for a moment, then tipped his hat in gentlemanly fashion and turned. His parting expression, a mingling of reproof and regret, stole whatever triumph she might have felt and left her wishing she’d used better judgment.

She stared after him as he and his dog rounded the corner and disappeared from view. Her gaze moved back to the elk that up until moments ago had ruled this mountain, and that now lay crumpled and defeated.

She’d seen Ranslett run his hand along the animal’s magnificent rack and knew buyers back east would pay handsomely for it. He probably had a purchaser waiting in the wings. The thought sat ill within her, and it didn’t take her long to figure out why. One of the main reasons for her coming to this territory was to encourage tourists to travel west. To stay in a luxury hotel complete with hot springs and a waterfall and . . . to game hunt, if they desired.

“You sure this is still a good idea, Miz Westbrook?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Josiah. “You’re the one who told me his name a moment ago.”

“I knows it. I know I did.” He wagged his head from side to side. “I’m just thinkin’ back on it now, is all.” His brow furrowed in a comical yet serious way. “You happen to take notice of the way he looked at you, ma’am? And how he gave me the eye?”