Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (11 page)

She reached the boardwalk and spotted Josiah waiting across the street at the butcher’s shop per their discussion, but she saw no sign of Ranslett. She checked her pocket watch—thirty-five past eight. She was early—a by-product of being raised with a military father. He was a stickler for punctuality.

She thought again of how Ranslett had left her standing in the store. He wasn’t late . . . yet . . . but in the event he’d changed his mind about taking her today, she and Josiah would make the short trek back to Maroon Lake, where they’d been yesterday afternoon, and she would finish taking photographs there. So their preparation this morning wouldn’t be in vain.

She stood there for a moment, debating a quick errand, and then decided to chance it. She told Josiah where she was going, then cut a path down the street. To her delight, the office was lighted inside and she saw a man in the back.

She opened the door, knocking as she did. “Hello?”

As he drew closer and she got a better look, she guessed him to be Drayton Turner, the editor of the
Timber Ridge Reporter
. Who else would be working when everyone else was not? And would be wearing such a scowl?

He met her at the front counter, hardly looking at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re not open for business until nine o’clock.”

His brusque manner was familiar and sparked an unexpected urge within her to be back in the throes of the bustle of the
Chronicle
offices. And why should she expect a newspaper editor in the Colorado Territory to be any different from one in Washington? They were an odd breed, editors, but a breed she understood. “Yes, I realize that, sir, and I didn’t mean to bother you. I was hoping to pick up the most recent edition of your newspaper.”

Recognition flitted across his face. “You’re the photographer. I’ve seen you around town.” His scowl softened. “A photographer is a welcome addition to Timber Ridge.”

She could well guess why he felt that way. She’d seen his publication. Not a photograph to be found. But that was no excuse for her to act pretentious. “Yes, I am. Photography is a hobby I’ve studied for several years. Couple that with a fascination with the Wild West”—she said it with enthusiasm and widened her eyes—“and here I am.” Aware of him watching her, she waited to see if he would buy the “coming west for adventure” slant.

Slightly taller than she, he was balding on the crown of his head but boasted a healthy stand of black hair elsewhere. Rather than increasing his years, the look gave him a distinguished quality that he carried off well. Thankfully he wasn’t one of those men who grew his hair longer on one side and swept it across to the other to compensate. One of the reporters at the
Chronicle
did that, even adding a little twist on the top, for whatever reason, and he was forever being ridiculed by his peers behind his back. Though the habit was amusing and only drew more attention to what he was trying to hide, Elizabeth had always found it uncomfortable when the jesting turned to him.

“I admire that kind of courage, ma’am. Especially when I find it in a woman. I’m Drayton Turner, editor of the town’s newspaper, the
Timber Ridge Reporter.
I own this building and am working hard to get Timber Ridge up with the times. We have a telegraph office, if you haven’t noticed.” An elitist air slipped into his voice and told Elizabeth all she needed to know.

“Elizabeth Westbrook. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. And yes, I was recently in the telegraph office.” It was all she could do not to mention it wasn’t working. No need in getting off on the wrong foot. She extended her hand.

He looked momentarily bemused by the gesture, then shook her hand. “And you as well . . .
Miss
Westbrook?”

She nodded, answering his none-too-subtle question.

He reached to a stack on a nearby table. “Here’s a copy of our latest edition. We publish every Monday and Thursday morning. But with the town’s growth, I’ve been considering going to a larger format. Either that or going to a more frequent publishing schedule.”

If Goldberg had handed her something like this, he would have been offended had she not read it right away. So she skimmed the front of the single sheet publication in half a minute, then turned it over, nodding as she scanned the back. She’d always been a fast reader.

“So, what do you think of it, Miss Westbrook?”

His tone cradled the real question. He wasn’t asking for her opinion as much as he was asking for her praise, and she couldn’t fault him for it. It was a loathsome dependence she shared. Every other Monday when E.G. Brenton’s article hit the stands, she couldn’t wait to frequent the local restaurants and shops in hopes of overhearing comments. The more positive the better.

“Your publication is very . . . informative, Mr. Turner. And well laid out on the page. Do you do your printing on site?” She decided it best not to mention the four misspellings she’d found.

His laugh was indulgent and his expression patronizing. “If my guess is right, and I’m rarely wrong in this regard, my little newspaper is none too impressive to someone like you, Miss Westbrook. Let me see if I can guess correctly . . . New York City?”

Elizabeth shook her head, seeing more similarities between him and Goldberg by the minute. Both were intelligent, capable, self-assured men—who wore their egos on their sleeves. The last character trait wasn’t an admirable one, but it certainly made reading the men easier. The only difference she could detect was that Turner was younger, and significantly more attractive.

He held up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me.” He smirked more than smiled. “Washington?”

“Very good.” Though not hard to decipher. “But I’ve spent quite a bit of time in New York, so you weren’t too far off there either.”

Feigned yearning thinly veiled his envy. “I’m impressed, Miss Westbrook. I’ve never been to New York City. Came close once, but then my—” The confidence behind his smirk faded. “Let’s just say that my circumstances changed. I’ll bet being out here seems a world away to you, barbarous in comparison to what you’re accustomed to.”

“No, not at all.”

“You can be honest, ma’am. We’ll consider this conversation . . . off the record.”

The statement made her go tight-lipped. How many times had she used that same phrase only to quote the person verbatim the following morning under the guise of an “unnamed source”? Once Goldberg had inserted the person’s real name, against her wishes but at the insistence it would have been wrong not to expose the source. She hadn’t agreed, but since E.G. Brenton’s name was on the article and not hers, she hadn’t had to deal directly with the aftermath. But as E.G. Brenton’s “assistant,” she’d lost a trusted source.

She used care in phrasing a quote-worthy response while thinking up a reason to leave. “On the contrary, Mr. Turner, I’ve been impressed with the beauty of Timber Ridge and its surroundings. Already I can tell that good, decent people live here. New York City may be exciting in many ways, as is Washington with its political climate, but neither of those cities has anything like your Rocky Mountains.”

He chuckled softly. “Well done, Miss Westbrook. A truthful answer that deftly skirted the heart of the question. With such skill you ought to run for town council. Or better yet, come work for me!”

She joined in his laughter, hoping hers sounded natural, and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have another appointment this morning, but I thank you for the newspaper.” She opened her reticule. “How much do I owe you?”

“No charge, ma’am. Just consider it a ‘welcome to town’ from the
Timber Ridge Reporter.
And . . .” His expression turned decidedly less businesslike. “Feel free to stop by anytime. Perhaps I might persuade you to take some photographs for the
Reporter.
I’ll publish them and list your name right alongside. Imagine it . . .” He punctuated the air as he spoke. “Elizabeth Westbrook, Female Photographer!”

How like Wendell Goldberg this man was. Goldberg had a way of knowing what would motivate a person and never failed to use that to his advantage. He also never wanted to be bothered with something until that
something
held an advantage for him. Then he could change horses in the middle of a stream faster than imagined and with nary a splash. Just like this man.

“I doubt my photographs of landscapes and wildlife would be of interest to you, Mr. Turner. Or to anyone else who lives here. You see both all the time.”

“And who’s saying you can only take photographs of landscapes and wildlife, Miss Westbrook?”

Elizabeth guarded her reaction. “Well, no one, of course. That’s simply been the bulk of my choices thus far.”

His area of focus briefly drifted to encompass more than just her face. “One of the beauties about being out west is that convention isn’t so . . . burdensome a cloak in these parts. You’ll find that, out here, you can explore . . . other choices. And I’m hoping you’ll make time to do just that.” He tilted his head and looked at her in such a way that told her he meant for the gesture to come across as promising, perhaps even enticing.

But his effort fell far short on her.

With a hasty good-bye, she hurried to meet Ranslett, not daring to look back, but could feel Turner’s eyes following her. The attraction wasn’t there for her, yet a small part of her appreciated his attention. Hadn’t encouraged it, but appreciated it.

For the first time in years, no one around her knew of her association with the
Washington Daily Chronicle.
No one knew she was the daughter of U.S. Senator Garrett Westbrook, decorated colonel in the Federal Army, and strategist behind some of the North’s greatest battle victories in the war—both distinctions coming with their own stigmas and preconceptions.

Here, she was free of those past identities. No one saw her as the woman she’d once been. They saw her for who she was now, and the anonymity felt . . . wonderful.

For the first time in her life, she truly believed she had the chance to be whoever and whatever she wanted to be.

It was two minutes after nine, and Josiah confirmed that Ranslett hadn’t shown yet. Winded from hurrying back, Elizabeth peeked inside the butcher’s shop, wondering why he’d suggested they meet here. She got a whiff of what awaited past the entryway and decided against venturing farther in, until she spotted the man behind the counter. Then she changed her mind.

He stood hunched over a slab of meat and repeatedly brought down his cleaver with a force worthy of his build. His shoulders matched the width of the doorway behind him, and his forearms and hands were massive. She stepped inside.

The smell of raw meat and its vestiges hung heavy in the small building, and an oversized slate board propped by the door quietly announced what cuts of meat were available. She looked for an icebox but didn’t see one. Their butcher back home had a pristine ice-lined glass case where he displayed fresh cuts of beef, pork, chicken, and fish.

The man behind the counter didn’t look up, so she took the opportunity to watch him, already knowing he would make an excellent subject for a portrait. She laid aside her pack and surveyed the room. Morning sun slanting through the front window would provide ample light, and the surroundings were perfect. Rustic, unrefined. Without a word, this setting, this man, would capture a slice of what it was like to exist on this frontier. Perhaps far better than the pictures of landscapes she’d been taking.

She couldn’t say whether Goldberg would be won over by the photograph or not, but her instincts told her it held possibilities. Even more so if the butcher had a story to go along with the life experiences etched in his face. And she bet he did.

The man briefly looked up, away, and then back again.

He stilled, his meat cleaver paused midair. His bushy eyebrows met to form a single line. “How do, ma’am. Somethin’ I can help you with?” He sank the cleaver into the edge of the table and swatted at an unseen fly.

“Yes, sir. At least I hope there is.”

He gave her a quick up and down, then eyed her more closely. “Meat’s out back in the icehouse. Got what’s listed on the board right there—plus some elk I can sell you. Fresh. Just butchered yesterday.”

Jars of jerky sat atop a shelf above the counter. She’d never cared for its salty taste or tough texture. “I’ll take four slices of jerky, please.” Her chances were always better if she purchased something.

“Peppered or no?” He tore off a piece of butcher paper.

“Not peppered, thank you.”

He formed a sleeve and slipped the jerky inside. “Ten cents.”

Handing him the coin, Elizabeth noticed the swelling around his knuckles and the scars crisscrossing the tops of his arms and hands. Butchering was a costly occupation. Maybe he’d be willing to let her take a photograph of him closer up, after she got his image with the butcher block and cleaver. “Sir, I don’t mean to be too forward, but I—”

“In my experience, ma’am, anytime a person starts out with ‘I don’t mean to be too forward . . .’ it usually means they’re aimin’ to be just that. They’re just hopin’ the other person won’t take offense.” He handed her the jerky.

She laughed softly, not having expected him to be quite so insightful, or forward. “I admire your candor, sir, and will come straight to the point.”

“That’s usually best, miss.” He kept a straight face, but she detected a smile edging his voice.

“I’m new to Timber Ridge and have come here to photograph your beautiful mountains. But . . .” She tried for a shy smile. “I’d very much appreciate the opportunity to take your personal photograph, sir. I have my equipment here, and—”

He shook his head. “No thank you, ma’am. Not interested.”

“No fee is involved. It won’t cost you a penny.”

“Good day to you, ma’am.” He walked back to his table.

Elizabeth moved down a few steps to keep in his line of vision. She’d heard of natives who didn’t want their picture taken for fear the image would steal a piece of their soul and they would enter the next world unwhole, but she’d never encountered a white man who held that belief. “It won’t take but just a few minutes, and it doesn’t hurt a bit.” She ended on an upbeat.