Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (16 page)

She could tell by the look on Sheriff McPherson’s face that he was surprised to see her. “Good morning, Sheriff. I hope I’m not bothering you. I know it’s early for a Monday morning.” She pushed the office door closed.

He rose from his desk, chewing and wiping his mouth. He swallowed. “Good morning, Miss Westbrook. And it’s not too early at all.” He rushed to her side of the desk and gathered a pile of papers and books from a chair. “Here, have a seat. Pardon the conditions—we don’t get many women in through here. My sister’s about the only woman who ever visits, or used to. She hasn’t been in for a while.” He stacked an empty tin with others on a table behind him and brushed what looked to be remnants of breakfast—or perhaps several meals—onto the floor.

“Thank you.” She curbed a grin at his attempt at cleanliness, then glimpsed something smeared on the chair just before she sat down. She quickly caught herself and stood again.

Seeing it, he shook his head. “Why don’t we go for a walk? That might be safer.”

She let him lead the way. They turned right as they departed the office, then left at the next street.

“How are you adjusting to life in Timber Ridge, ma’am?”

“Quite well. I love your town and your people. Everyone here is so kind, and your mountains . . .” The Maroon Bells reigned above, etched steely and white against the brilliant blue. “My camera doesn’t rightly capture their beauty.”

“They are pretty, especially with the snow on them.” They walked in silence for a few paces, and then he looked over at her. “But I’m thinking you didn’t come to talk to me about the mountains.” He smiled.

“You’re right, I’m actually here seeking your advice on something. I’m planning an expedition to the cliff dwellings south of here that were recently discovered.”

“For that hobby of yours?”

McPherson tipped his hat to a woman passing by. Elizabeth hoped the woman wasn’t married—not with the look she’d just tossed in the sheriff ’s direction. Yet the man seemed totally unaware of it.

“Yes . . . for my hobby.” Feeling a prick of guilt at the lie, she consoled herself with the fact that it
had
been a hobby for years. “And I’m in need of a guide for that journey.”

“I’ve got just the man for you and you’ve already met him—Daniel Ranslett. Ranslett can track anything or anyone, even through water.” His grin said he was kidding, but there was also a seriousness to it. “And he knows these mountains better than anyone else. I’d be willing to speak to him for you, if you’d like.”

“Actually, I’ve already spoken to Mr. Ranslett about the opportunity, and he turned me down. Quite soundly, in fact.”

McPherson laughed. “That sounds like Ranslett. He can be a hard sell at times.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“But he’s always honest. You never have to guess where he stands on something.”

They took the path that circled Maroon Lake, where she and Josiah had taken photographs last week. The water was still frozen in patches and lapped at the mud bordering the banks.

“How did the two of you meet, ma’am? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all.” She briefly told him of her and Ranslett’s first encounter, and McPherson’s laughter caused her to embellish a few of the details for humor’s sake. “When I put to him that I wanted another day of hunting to replace the elk he cost me, I didn’t really think he would agree, but he did.”

“Consider yourself lucky, Miss Westbrook. Ranslett’s not one to agree to such things. It’s not that he’s unsociable. He’s just . . . taken to enjoying his privacy more in recent years.”

“Am I right in guessing that you’ve known each other for a time, Sheriff?”

He didn’t answer, and she wondered if she’d overstepped her bounds.

He finally nodded. “Ranslett and I go back a ways, yes, ma’am. He’s a good man. And again, you won’t find a better tracker or hunter in all the Rockies.”

“That may be the case, but he’s made it clear he has no interest in guiding me to the cliff dwellings. When I first arrived, I posted an advertisement at the general store and learned just this morning that one gentleman has responded—a Mr. Hawthorne. He left word that he’s available to meet with me this afternoon. I was wondering if you would be willing to look at his letters of reference—or speak for his character, if you know him.”

“Can’t say that I do know him, but I’d be happy to look at his references for you. You want to be able to trust whomever you hire.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

They rounded the lake and took the path leading back to town. “You know what’s brought me west, Sheriff. But what about you? What drew you from your . . . obvious Southern roots?”

He smiled. “It was a lot of things, I guess. Mainly, though, life was different after the war. Houses were still standing, but homes were gone, families torn apart. And in a way it was too sad to stay there and face it every day. So I came west, not planning on staying here, mind you. Just wanted to see what everyone was talking about.”

“And what took you from that to being sheriff of Timber Ridge? That’s quite a leap.”

“Something happened not long after I arrived here, Miss Westbrook. Something that . . . changed my view on life, you might say. I know this town may look rough to you, ma’am, having come from such a big city, but when I first got here there was no law at all. Not in a person or an office anyway. Every man just pretty much called things how he saw it. If there was a dispute, it was settled between the two having it. Sometimes more civilly than others.” His eyes narrowed. “We had a killing . . . of a white man who was well liked in town. He’d been outspoken against the Negroes coming into Timber Ridge, about them taking up residence alongside the whites. You know what I’m talking about. . . . When his body was found outside of town, there was an uprising.

“White people demanded justice, and before anything could be settled, some of the men saw justice meted out—their own way. They accused a Negro man of the murder, and they hung him. . . .” A shadow encompassed his face. “Along with his wife and four children. I wasn’t in town at the time, but I was told they hung the children first, starting with the youngest. Then his wife, and then him.”

Elizabeth saw in the sheriff ’s face what could only be described as the rawest of pains. A question burned inside her, one she already knew the answer to. She swallowed to ensure she could speak. “The man was innocent . . . wasn’t he?”

McPherson looked down for a moment, as though not wanting to answer. “He was. But things happened so fast, and those few who knew he didn’t do it were too afraid to say anything. And even if he had done it . . . they killed his family!” He paused on the trail and nodded toward a stand of trees, just off the lake.

Elizabeth stilled beside him, not seeing anything at first, then . . . A sadness settled deep inside her. Crosses, six in all, arranged in a semicircle from largest to smallest, in a tiny cove of pine.

“Ben Mullins, who owns the general store, he and I buried them. Shortly after that I put my name forward for sheriff. And I’ve been here ever since.”

She slowly exhaled, not having to wonder whether she would remember that story well enough to write it down later. She felt it burning in her down deep, and knew that E.G. Brenton’s readers would too.

14

L
ater that afternoon Elizabeth took her place behind a line four patrons deep at the counter of the land and title office. She wondered if standing in line was necessary in order to speak with the manager, a Mr. Zachary, but with only the busy clerk behind the counter to ask, she chose to wait. Apparently everyone in town bought land on Monday.

She used the time to read the different advertisements on the bulletin board to her right, amused at the misspellings or poor wording on many of them. As Wendell Goldberg espoused daily without fail,
“No word should be uttered, much less written, without benefit of an editor.”
No one would ever accuse the man of being humble.

She paid special notice to the posts advertising land for sale. The
Chronicle
’s investors had proposed specific requirements regarding the plots of land they wanted, and land suitable to construct a hotel with access to hot springs was primary. None of these notices described the various plots as having access to hot springs, but that didn’t mean—

“May I be of assistance, ma’am?”

Elizabeth turned to meet a face she didn’t recognize, but a swift inventory of his tailored suit and professional demeanor told her who he was. “Mr. Zachary, a pleasure to meet you, sir.” The importance of knowing people’s names was something her father had drilled into her at a young age. He still recalled the last name of every ranking officer who ever served beneath him, and many of the soldiers.

“Miss Westbrook, is it?”

She gave a half nod.

“My apologies for not keeping our appointment last week. I was called out of the office at the last minute.” Mr. Zachary revealed a tendency to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Don’t tell me you’ve already fallen in love with our territory, ma’am, and are here to purchase one of our mountains.”

Elizabeth’s laughter came out higher pitched than she intended. The man was closer to the truth than he might guess. “Yes, sir, and I’ll be paying in gold bullion to seal the deal. Do you find those terms agreeable?”

He had himself a good laugh, as did the other patrons in line who’d overheard.

“I
would
appreciate the opportunity to speak with you, Mr. Zachary, privately, if you have a free moment.”

He motioned for her to follow.

This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d played a role to gain information on behalf of the
Chronicle,
but this was the first time she’d ever felt a twinge of conscience while doing so. She entered his office and took the chair indicated by his gesture, then heard the door close behind her. In a big city like Washington, her chances of ever revisiting people she dealt with in this manner were slim. Especially after the
Chronicle
published the story being investigated.

But here in Timber Ridge it felt different somehow. More devious. Yet she had a job to do and a career to forge. . . .

“Would you care for something to drink, Miss Westbrook?”

No business owner in Washington had ever offered her refreshment. “No, thank you, sir, and I promise not to monopolize your afternoon.”

His expression said he doubted that could be possible.

“Since arriving in your town, Mr. Zachary, I’ve heard people speak of the mineral pools in the area, and . . . I’m wondering if you have a plat that marks the locations of these springs.”

He leaned forward on his desk, his pleasant gaze growing wide. “Oh, you’re asking near the impossible, ma’am. There are so many locations scattered throughout the region, I’m afraid we don’t have a map designating them all. But I can direct you to one just outside of town, if you’re interested in
taking the waters,
as we like to say.”

She gave a polite smile. “I should have been clearer in my request. I’m sorry. I’m only interested in looking at the . . . larger pools and springs.”

Mr. Zachary steepled his fingers beneath his chin and gave a slow nod, a portion of his good faith noticeably waning. “May I inquire as to the nature of your interest in these springs, Miss Westbrook?”

“Most certainly.” She and Goldberg had role-played this situation before she’d left Washington. “I’d like to photograph them during my stay here in Timber Ridge. And, from experience, the larger bodies of water are better suited for the camera’s wide-angle lens.” Which was true.

The lost measure of favor gradually returned to Zachary’s countenance, and she remembered one of the last meetings she’d had with Goldberg before she left Washington.
“Managers of local title institutions control the reins on many levels, Miss Westbrook, and if they get wind of a large investor maneuvering to take controlling interest of their town’s land, they might perceive it as a threat, which it isn’t—it’s growing their economy. Or they might reason it will go against the town’s best interest, which it doesn’t. And they could nix the deal before it even begins.”

So she decided to play the demure angle. . . .

Elizabeth scooted to the edge of her seat. “But if you think, sir, that taking photographs of your springs would be detrimental in any way, then I’ll—”

“Not at all, Miss Westbrook. We’d be happy for you to take photographs, but you need to be aware . . .” He rose from his chair. “The sections of land that have the larger springs are privately owned. You’ll need to gain permission from the owners before taking photographs on their property. Most are fine with you being on the land, unless it’s for hunting purposes. In that case, etiquette dictates that you gain their permission beforehand, for obvious reasons. Who wants to be shot at by accident?”

“Better by accident than on purpose!” She laughed along with him, rising from her chair. “I completely understand and will happily comply.”

“Come with me, then, and I’ll ask my assistant to pull those maps for you.” Mr. Zachary approached a pretty brunette in the outer office. “Miss Carter, if you would pull the maps of these properties for Miss Westbrook.” He scribbled on a pad of paper on the woman’s desk. “And please answer any questions she may have.”

“Miss Westbrook”—he tilted his head in acknowledgment—“the pleasure has been mine, and please don’t hesitate to contact me should you require further assistance during your stay in Timber Ridge.”

Elizabeth marveled at the ease of it all. Deeds were public record, but accessing similar documentation in Washington had never been so effortless. Without her identifying credentials from the
Chronicle,
she would never have gotten anywhere. “Thank you, Mr. Zachary, for your help.”

“I’ll get these maps for you, ma’am.” The pretty brunette disappeared into a back room and returned minutes later. She unfurled large rolls of paper and secured their curling edges with polished rocks.

Elizabeth had studied maps of the area, so was fairly familiar with the land. Still, it took her a moment to gain her bearings on the exact locations of these plats.