Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (6 page)

Elizabeth studied her new friend more closely. “You’re not . . . afraid of him, are you? Of how he might . . . mistreat you?”

Josiah’s expression sobered. His gaze went distant, and she sensed the pages of his life turning back inside him.

“No, ma’am, I ain’t afraid. Not of that. Not no more.” His jaw went rigid. “Worst thing a man could do to me . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. He bowed his head. “That already been done.”

Elizabeth started to pose the obvious question, but better sense kept her from it. Her father had warned her about such times, when her natural curiosity was not a virtue but rather a fault, an intrusion. And hadn’t personal experience confirmed that lesson as well . . . ?

“I just knows when a man is set on helpin’ a person. And I don’t get the feelin’ that helpin’ you is what Mr. Ranslett is set on.”

Elizabeth tucked a wayward curl back into place. “I don’t really care what Mr. Ranslett is set on as long as he leads me to another bull elk. And will somehow refrain from shooting it until
after
I’ve developed the image.”

She had just prepared another wet plate when Mr. Ranslett reappeared over the rise leading his horse, his aging beagle in tow. The scowl on the man’s face had deepened, which improved her mood considerably. Served him right, after what he’d done.

He wasted no time in situating the bull elk onto its back, not an easy task to manage alone. When he pulled his knife from his belt, she turned away. Some things she didn’t need to see.

“You be needin’ some help with that?”

At Josiah’s question, she turned to answer him, only to realize he wasn’t addressing her.

“No . . . thank you.” Ranslett didn’t bother looking up. “I don’t.”

Josiah hesitated, then moved away, his expression masking any affront he might have felt. Another lesson he’d learned from his former station in life, perhaps?

An hour and a half later, with her shoulders cramping and an ache spanning her forehead, Elizabeth slipped a total of four dried glass plates, developed and swathed for travel, into a pack that Josiah loaded on the mule. She massaged her temples, wondering at the frequent headaches she’d had in recent days.

Despite the earlier incident with the bull elk, she had to admit that the day had been a success after all. The panoramas should please Goldberg, along with Chilton Enterprises, while communicating to him her seriousness about this opportunity. She would also let him know she’d begun organizing a travel party for her excursion to the recently discovered cliff dwellings south of Timber Ridge. She planned to leave within the month, if not sooner. The photographs at Mesa Verde were at the top of Goldberg’s list, and therefore hers too.

She stole a glance across the cliff. And now she had found someone familiar enough with the mountain passes—and the Ute Indians—to guide her there.

Ranslett hadn’t said another word to either of them. Hunched over his task, he didn’t look up when she approached. One glimpse at the bull elk reminded her to entertain her gaze elsewhere . . . and removed an appetite for meat anytime soon.

“We’re going to head down now.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Josiah and I,” and then immediately wished she hadn’t. It made her appear cajoling.

Ranslett stood and wiped his hands on the front of his untucked shirt, having shed his outer buckskin coat a while back. Watching the uncouth display, she got the feeling he meant for it to irritate her. Unwilling to take the bait, she looked down, feigning nonchalance, and it was then that she noticed his shoes. Made of soft leather and looped together on the top with strips of rawhide, they resembled what she’d seen natives wearing in photographs. What a strange combination of traits this man held.

The dog ventured closer, and she held out her hand to pet him. But a quick command from his master sent him scurrying back to enemy territory.

Her patience waned. “Mr. Ranslett, how may I get in touch with you? Once we’re back to town.”

He reached for his canteen and took a long draw. Water dribbled down his dark-stubbled chin before he wiped it away with his sleeve. “You won’t, ma’am.”

She waited, half expecting him to belch, but he spared her that indelicacy. “Then . . . how will we meet to—”

“Don’t worry.” Holding her gaze, he stuffed the cork into the canteen’s spout with his fist. “Finding you won’t be hard . . .
ma’am.

”

Certain he was poking fun at her, she managed a single nod, authoritatively, as she’d seen her father do. “Very well. Then I’ll expect to see you again . . .
soon.
” She arched a brow to make her point, but he’d already turned away. Feeling dismissed—and not liking it—she joined Josiah.

Before they rounded the bend on their downhill trek, something prompted her to look back. She discovered Ranslett watching her. He didn’t bother to look away, and a slow smile tipped his mouth. Without returning it, she quickly faced forward and sauntered down the hill, wanting to be the first to silently dismiss the other this time.

The man might not know it yet, but she was confident she’d just found the guide who would lead her to the Ute people. And—if she played her cards right—who would lead her expedition south to the cliff dwellings.

5

A
knock on her door the next morning roused Elizabeth from a restless night of little sleep.

“Good morning, Miss Westbrook. I’m leaving your tea service outside the room, dear.”

Elizabeth rose on one elbow and rubbed her eyes, her world still blurry. She’d awakened often due to dreams during the night, yet she couldn’t remember a single one. “My thanks, Miss Ruby.”

The soft padding of boots on the planked wooden floor in the hallway faded, and Elizabeth pushed back the covers and shuffled from bed. A tremor tingled her right hand, and she clenched and unclenched her fingers in an effort to get it to stop. The same thing had happened last night as she retired, but she’d attributed it to writing the article for the
Chronicle.
She always wrote a first draft, made revisions to that copy, and then wrote a second. Tedious, but she prided herself on turning in a clean copy. Something Goldberg highly regarded.

A familiar scent slowly distinguished itself from the muskiness of the room, and a quick glance out the window confirmed her suspicion—it had rained sometime during the night. Which didn’t bode well for her. Humidity always worsened her lung ailment.

She reached for the bottle on the bedside table and tilted it at an angle so the light spilling through the window shone through the amber-colored glass. She’d been rationing it in recent days, but only a couple of teaspoons remained. Not even a full dose.

She opened the door, carried the tea service into her room, and set it on the desk. Though it was far less formal than the coin-silver set back home, she suspected it was Miss Ruby’s finest, which made her appreciate it all the more. Miss Ruby, the proprietress of the boardinghouse, already had the tea steeping in the pot for her, as she did each morning. It was a special herbal blend the doctors in Washington recommended for her ailment. Elizabeth poured a cup and stirred in the remains of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup and drank it as a precautionary measure.

The syrup was also something a physician had prescribed, and she’d quickly discovered that it had a soothing effect on frayed nerves, which might prove helpful after such a fitful night. Its bitter aftertaste had lessened over time, but it still burned a path down her throat. She’d recently started taking a dash of the syrup with her tea before retiring too, to help her sleep, but with the bottle being near empty she had foregone the ritual the evening prior.

She slipped down to the communal washroom and raced through her morning routine, eager to get dressed and to the store so she could mail the photographs she’d developed after dinner last night. With any luck her package would arrive at Wendell Goldberg’s office before the other candidates’ first submissions did and would be a silent indicator of her determination.

Pausing for a second, she stared in the mirror at the flurry of curls springing from her head. She tried to pull her fingers through but knew it was useless. The only time she could get a brush or comb through the mess was when it was wet, and she hadn’t the time for that this morning. Oh, for hair black as a raven’s wing, straight and silky like the woman she’d seen earlier in the week at Mullins General Store, instead of the wiry mass of corkscrew curls God had seen fit to give her. Any effort to groom it now would only tease it into a rat’s nest, as Tillie had said all too often.

Tillie was about the
only
one who could say that to her, given that her own hair was also averse to the brush. She sighed and pinned the curls up as best she could.

If there was a way of contacting Mr. Ranslett, she could get an idea of when he’d be available to take her hunting. But she’d have to rely on him to get in touch with her. And if Ranslett failed to keep his word . . .

As soon as the thought came, it quickly left, finding no foothold. “
I’ll honor my word.”
She thought about what he’d said to her yesterday and somehow knew he would do just that—keep his word—regardless of the obvious fact that he didn’t care to.

Not until she’d climbed into her chilled bed last night had the idea come to her. Even as she’d tried to dismiss it, she’d found herself weighing its merit. She could have taken another photograph of that bull elk . . . afterward, with Daniel Ranslett standing beside it. Though the idea still made her shudder, she knew Goldberg would have wanted her to do it. A photograph like that wouldn’t have made the front page, for obvious reasons, but could have been used to advertise to game hunters.

Still, taking a picture of something dead didn’t sit well within her, even if it would win her Goldberg’s favor.

She repacked her toiletries and headed back to her room. She fit the key into the lock, but . . . it didn’t turn. She tried to force it, sighing in frustration. Miss Ruby had warned her it might stick on occasion. But of all the times . . . As it was she would have to rush to make the stage that carried mail to Denver every weekday morning, and she didn’t want to wait until Monday to mail her photographs.

She shook the knob, then gave it a brute twist. That did the trick, and she rushed inside.

She dressed quickly, lacing her corset snug and pulling on her stockings. Hers was the only room located on the third floor of the boardinghouse and was more spacious than the rooms on the lower levels. It had plenty of space to store her equipment, but Miss Ruby had made it plain that she wasn’t enamored with her bringing the various chemicals for her photography into the room. Yet she had nowhere else to put them. And she needed them close in order to develop pictures during the evening hours. Not the ideal arrangement, but she’d make it work. No doubt hauling the heavy equipment up and down the flights of stairs was growing tiresome for Josiah, yet he never complained about it.

In fact, she couldn’t remember Josiah complaining about anything she asked him to do. He might sass her occasionally, but that was different and all in fun. And she enjoyed it. Their banter was reminiscent of her relationship with Tillie. Oh, how she missed that woman.

Elizabeth buttoned her dress and fitted the coordinating black cummerbund around her waist, then secured the fasteners and stepped back to eye the ensemble in the full-length mirror. The dress was by far her favorite. She’d spotted it on a trip to New York City with her father and had slipped into the clothier to buy it, only to discover the price. Exorbitant! So she’d sketched the gown and shown it to a dressmaker in Washington, and the woman had captured the lines perfectly. Wearing it made her feel more feminine, yet it had a businesslike quality about it too. Not too frilly. Not too plain.

The bustle in the back was a work of art and flattered her waistline. Which, her being thirty-two, had far more generous curves than a decade previous. But that was the beauty of a corset—it lessened the contribution of passing years. And its curse? Not being able to take a deep, satisfying breath. There were days she weighed the cost.

Checking the clock one last time and knowing it would be close, she grabbed the envelope of photographs addressed to Wendell Goldberg. Already the hot tea was taking effect. A calmness flowed through her even as she hurried out the door.

6

T
here’s a lot of meat here, son. You sure you want all of it going to them this time?”

“That’s what I said—all of it.” Standing in the doorway of the butchery, Daniel turned to see Lolly sink his meat cleaver into the milky pink shank of the elk. Beau yipped at the sound, his tail wagging, but a well-aimed look from Daniel kept him stayed and gnawing on the bone Lolly had tossed him.

“All I’m suggesting is that you think on your decision again. I could put some of this aside, get a good price for it. The rack, especially.” Lolly wielded the butcher’s axe as if it were an outgrowth of his thick, beefy arm. A lifetime of butchering accounted for that. “Then you’d be set once winter comes again. Wouldn’t have to worry none.”

“I appreciate your concern, friend, but I’m already set for next winter. I typically don’t worry about much. And the rack’s already spoken for.” Anticipating Lolly’s scowl made it even more enjoyable when it came.

“Then tell me this, Ranslett . . . What price are you gettin’ for this bull’s rack? A goodly sum, I hope.”

Daniel turned his attention to the boardwalk outside so Lolly couldn’t see his smile.

“You didn’t just give it away, did you?” Lolly ceased his chopping. “Please tell me you asked
something
for it.”

The heat of Lolly’s stare prickled the back of Daniel’s neck, but he ignored it and knelt to give Beau’s head a good rubbing. The dog rolled onto his side, tongue lolling from his mouth.

Lolly swore softly beneath his breath and resumed chopping.

Daniel helped himself to a piece of jerky from a jar and regretted—for the hundredth time—his agreeing to take Miss Westbrook hunting. Her request had been nothing short of foolhardy, but he’d felt partially responsible for what had happened on the ridge yesterday—at the time anyway. Granted, that sense of responsibility had lessened each time she’d opened her tart little mouth.