Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (29 page)

Turner followed her lead.

“I appreciate your time, Miss Westbrook, and your clever insights.

You’ve been so open, and helpful. Nothing irritates me more than printing something that’s not accurate.” He retrieved his hat from the bench. “Just one last query and I’ll be on my way. You know a man by the name of Josiah Birch, do you not?”

She sensed he was toying with her, and she didn’t like it. “Yes, I do. You saw him this week, in fact, when we met at the coroner’s. Mr. Birch is in my employ and is a fine, upstanding man.”

“You know . . .” He tapped his pencil. “I wondered if that was him. Are you aware that this Negro—” He paused as though catching himself. “This fine, upstanding man,” he added quickly. “The one in your current employ . . . is wanted for the murder of a white man in the state of Tennessee? Shot a defenseless man in the back. The poor fella never knew what killed him.”

Like a pendulum suspended in midair, the moment hung. Fractured. Separate. The only sound Elizabeth could distinguish was the soft whoosh of wind outside the hallway window.

“I’m sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn, ma’am.” Turner slid his pencil and paper into his pocket. “But I take it from your reaction that you weren’t privy to this information before hiring him.”

She tried to swallow, but the dryness in her mouth prevented it.

“It’s none of my business, and you’re free to tell me so, but . . . I’d advise you to be careful whom you associate with out here. People tend to judge a woman by the company she keeps, and things can get . . . complicated if she insists on keeping close company with a Negro. This isn’t Washington, as I told you before, ma’am, and you’ll quickly discover that folks in these parts don’t appreciate being led on. They don’t take kindly to pretense.” His eyes were bereft of warmth. “And they won’t care much that you’re the daughter of a United States senator.”

Elizabeth was too stunned to speak. A creaking noise sounded behind her and she turned to see her bedroom door move an inch. Then another. She prayed Daniel wouldn’t show himself and that he hadn’t heard what Turner had just said.

Then she saw it, a black button nose edging its way toward the threshold. She saw it clearly from her vantage point and wondered if Turner could. A soft shuffle and the nose disappeared.

For a second she thought Turner might go investigate.

His smile was presumptuous. “I didn’t know you were entertaining company at this late hour, Miss Westbrook. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Her face heated. “It must be the wind, Mr. Turner. You know how drafty these clapboard buildings can be. Like you said, this isn’t Washington.”

He studied her for a moment, then walked toward the stairs. “You be sure and stop by the
Reporter
sometime tomorrow, Miss Westbrook. I’ll have a special edition out.” At the staircase he turned back. “And I always make sure our lead story gets a complimentary copy.”

26

S
tanding in the hallway, Elizabeth could only stare at Drayton Turner as he disappeared down the stairwell. The word
underestimated
rose in her mind. Yet part of her, a very small part, actually admired the tactics he’d used. His skill lay beyond what she’d credited him. His main reason in coming here tonight had been to spring the information about Josiah on her. His inquiries about photography had been a ruse, and she’d fallen for it, partially out of a desire to impress him with her experiences with Mathew Brady and President Lincoln. How foolish . . .

And Josiah, wanted for murder. Impossible. There had to be some mistake.

But what would happen to him when Turner printed the condemning assumption in the morning paper? And without question, Turner
would
print it. He would likely begin with something about her father being a U.S. senator, then add a line, maybe two, about her photography, then he would list the charge against Josiah. She knew that’s what Turner would do because that’s what Wendell Goldberg would’ve done,
and
what Goldberg would have instructed her to do.

She wanted the position at the
Chronicle
more than anything else. That’s what she’d been working toward for the past ten years. But there were times when she questioned whether she had what it took to do the job.

Turner might toss in the term
alleged,
which would matter little to the people of Timber Ridge. Once readers of the
Reporter
saw the word
murder
and they discovered, if they didn’t know already, that Josiah was a Negro—which Turner would mention without fail—Josiah would be linked to the death of Travis Coulter, and his fate would be sealed.

She had to tell him. Get to Josiah and warn him. But she had no idea where he was.

Daniel . . .

She turned to find him standing in the doorway of her room. Discovery shaded his features, telling her he’d heard every word of her conversation with Turner. He slipped his hat on and whistled low for Beau. The dog appeared around the corner.

The sheriff had said Daniel could track anybody and anything, and that he knew these mountains. But she also knew how Daniel felt about Josiah, about his people in general. He didn’t hate them as some did, but he clearly didn’t see them as his equals. Following that thread of prejudice, she doubted whether he would be willing to help her.

“Do you have any idea where Birch is right now?” Daniel asked. “Where he stays?”

The concern in his voice surprised her. “When I asked him a few days ago, all he said was God had given him plenty of forest. And caves—he did mention caves. Does that tell you anything?”

“Yes, ma’am. . . . It tells me he could be anywhere within a five-hundred-mile radius of here.” A smile tempered his sarcasm. “I’ll find him. Hopefully before sunup.”

As he passed her in the hallway, she stopped him. “Thank you, Daniel. And it won’t take me but a moment to get ready.”

He glanced down at her hand on his arm, then looked as if he might offer disagreement. “I’ll get my horse from the livery and meet you outside.”

“He didn’t do it.” Her voice came out more hushed than she’d wanted.

Daniel paused, then brushed back a curl from her face. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I know him. It may sound strange to you, I realize, but I know the heart that beats inside of that man. And he didn’t do it.”

He covered her hand. “A man can do a lot of things in his life, Elizabeth. Things so opposite each other that, over time, he can bear little resemblance to the person he once was.”

“Josiah doesn’t have it in him to kill a man. Not in that way.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed and went dark and deep as seawater at midnight. “And just what way would that be?” A hardness had slipped into his voice.

“Josiah might kill to protect himself, but he would never kill a defenseless man, Daniel. That would be cowardly and cruel, and beneath a man of honor.”

Daniel stepped back, looking as if she’d slapped him. “Beneath a man of honor?”

She wondered at the question in his tone. Perhaps she’d underestimated his animosity toward Negroes after all.

“I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes. And I’ll do my best to find him.”

Daniel assisted Elizabeth into the saddle, mindful of her bandaged hand, and then pulled himself up behind her. Her judgment from moments ago still burned inside him. “
Beneath a man of honor.”

If she felt that way about Josiah being accused of a murder, how would she feel if she knew
he’d
killed countless
defenseless
men? He told himself it was different and wanted to believe she would see it that way too. It had been war, and though the men hadn’t known they were about to die, they’d hardly been defenseless. They’d served as the masterminds of death for thousands from their pristine offices back in Washington or from their tents far removed from the heat of battle. Yet the faces of those very men, their sudden shock as they realized their fate and surrendered to it unwillingly, still haunted him. And would until the day he died.

He reached around Elizabeth for the reins. “You comfortable enough?”

“Yes, thank you.” Her voice was soft, and she sat up straighter, putting some space between them.

He prodded the mare but kept her at a gentle pace. Beau jumped up from where he’d been lying and trotted behind. The town was quiet, and rightly so. It was late. Daniel hadn’t checked the time but figured it had to be well past midnight.

With everything she’d been through today, she had no business going with him, but he knew she wouldn’t have accepted his saying no. Not tonight. Not when he already knew she didn’t want to stay by herself.

He’d dropped by the sheriff ’s office on his way back from the livery to see if McPherson was there. He wasn’t. Daniel knew he’d want to know about Josiah Birch, so he figured they’d ride to the Boyd home. Then he and McPherson could head out to look for Josiah, and Elizabeth could stay the night in the cabin with Rachel and the boys. He didn’t think Rachel would mind some female company, though she surely wouldn’t be pleased at seeing him again.

Elizabeth turned to look back but stopped quickly and reached for the back of her head. “I think my hair’s caught somehow.”

He reined in, rose up in the stirrups, and she swept her curls over one shoulder. He eased back down behind her. “All set now?”

“I think so.” She laughed softly. “But a cup of coffee would be nice if you could manage it.”

He nudged the horse again. “I actually make a very good cup of coffee. But I don’t happen to have any with me at present. How about I bring some with us when we go hunting? I know you don’t have your camera anymore, but I could show you some of the countryside, some real pretty spots you haven’t seen before.”

She looked back and her cheek came close to his. “That’s very sweet of you. I’d like that very much.”

Defeat softened her tone, and a rush of anger tore through him again at whoever had done this to her.

She faced forward. “Thank you for searching for Josiah.”

“You’re welcome.” Her hair smelled faintly of sulfur, not the most pleasant scent in the world, but he was accustomed to it, having taken the waters in the area for years. He preferred the springs on his land. They didn’t have near the smell of the ones in town and were considerably clearer.

He hadn’t given her a choice on how to ride. He wasn’t sure how skilled Elizabeth was on a horse and didn’t want to take the chance of her slipping off the back and adding a broken arm to an already injured hand. McPherson and his sister didn’t live more than fifteen minutes from town, but a part of the trail included a steep incline, then a narrow ridge overlooking Timber Ridge, with the remainder being winding mountain trail.

Daughter of a United States senator.
Who would’ve thought . . .

The words played in his mind as they rode past the outskirts of town. He felt bad even thinking about this now, given the current circumstances, but when he’d heard Turner say that about her, his first thought went to whether she might be willing to help get his petitions before the members of Congress. If anyone should be able to bend the ear of a senator, it would be that man’s daughter.

But what kind of man allowed his daughter to travel the western territories unescorted—or at least not properly so—taking photographs with a Negro man? Didn’t make any sense. At any rate, now definitely wasn’t the right time to bring up that subject. And that time might never come. Though he hoped it would.

There, he noticed it a second time—how she kept sitting up straight, putting distance between them. He peered over her shoulder to see her holding on to the pommel. “You can relax. I won’t let you fall off. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.” But neither did she let go.

He took the turnoff to the Boyd place, which started the steep incline. Elizabeth sat straight, gripping the pommel with her left hand, even leaning forward, until she apparently couldn’t manage it anymore. She slid back into him, and Daniel was ready.

Holding the reins with one hand, he rested the other on his thigh, easily supporting her weight. She felt good against him. “There now, is that so bad?”

“It’s not bad at all. I was just trying not to squish you.”

He laughed. “
Squish
me?”

She giggled, and it was a nice sound. “It’s sort of like being squashed, except I think it hurts more.”

“Well, ma’am, if this is pain, then bring on the full load.” That earned him a sharp nudge in the ribs. He smiled. “If there’s one thing I don’t think we have to worry about, it’s you squishing me.”

The land leveled out, and he noticed she didn’t go ramrod straight again. He glimpsed the top of the Boyds’ cabin through the trees but didn’t see a curl of smoke coming from the chimney. He hadn’t been here in months. But he remembered good times spent in the Boyd home, warm times with laughter shared over delicious meals, and the excitement when Thomas and Rachel’s two boys were born.

“We’re coming up on the sheriff ’s place. I figured we’d go ahead and stop by here first. He’ll want to know about Birch and what’s happening.”

The mountain trail opened up into a cove where the cabin sat nestled in thick stands of aspen and spruce. It could have been a hollow in the Tennessee hills if not for the rugged mountains towering above the single-story roofline. He glanced toward the barn and, even in the dark, could picture Thomas Boyd standing there, with an arm outstretched in greeting.