Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (8 page)

She penned the brief message in her head first, and removed unnecessary words as she set it in ink, factoring each cent. As well as factoring the confidentiality of the man sending it. “Am I assured, sir . . . that the messages I send through your company are kept confidential within your office here in Timber Ridge?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His expression and manner reflected integrity. “Only me and whoever’s listening to the clicks on down the line will know what you sent. Unless you’re telling someone how you’re about to rob the bank.” Humor crept into his features. “Then I might have to get the sheriff involved.”

She liked this man. “Agreed. Please send word to me at the boardinghouse once you receive confirmation of receipt.” She laid her coins on the counter.

He read what she’d written and nodded. “Will do, Miss Westbrook.”

Only a few steps down the boardwalk, she passed a darkened office window. It was part of the same building that housed the telegraph office, but it occupied a larger portion, and she’d already been there once. Sketched in large white letters on the front glass window were the words
Timber Ridge Reporter.

As was her habit when she traveled, she’d stopped by her first day in town to pick up a copy of the newspaper. A person could learn a lot about a town from its newspaper, and by meeting its editor. But Drayton Turner, the
Reporter
’s editor, had been out. “On
special
assignment” according to the young woman behind the front desk, as if Elizabeth should’ve been impressed by such a statement. The
Timber Ridge Reporter
was a leaflet compared to the
Washington Daily Chronicle.

Her gaze fell to a placard in the window she hadn’t noticed before. On it was listed the hours of business. She read it and smiled.
Closed on Fridays?
How could a newspaper office be closed on Fridays? No matter the day, the
Chronicle
’s multi-office, four-story building was always abuzz. Even on Sundays—though she normally didn’t adhere to working that day, unless she was far behind.

Taken by the quaintness of this little town, she continued on to the general store and was almost to the back counter when she would have sworn she was staring at an apparition.

Standing there transfixed in the middle of the aisle, draped from head to toe in black, the woman resembled a portrait of a Southern belle Elizabeth remembered seeing hung in Mathew Brady’s art gallery. An invisible hedge encircled the dark-haired woman, and people in the store went out of their way not to brush the ebony lace of her full-tiered skirt or interrupt in any way the air that seemed to lay in quiet folds about her.

Elizabeth attempted to do the same. But when she glanced at the woman’s face, she found herself unable to look away.

The woman was stunning, but it wasn’t her beauty that so commanded Elizabeth’s attention. It was the grief veiling her features that Elizabeth found so hard to turn away from.

Until the woman met her stare.

Elizabeth forced her gaze elsewhere, embarrassed at having intruded upon something that felt so intimate, while not understanding what it was she’d intruded upon. “I’m here to see if my medicine has been delivered.” She heard the explanation coming from her mouth but didn’t remember granting the words permission. “It should have been here days ago.” What was this overwhelming need to explain herself to this lady? She looked back.

The woman’s eyes were wide set and watchful, and Elizabeth found herself imagining them as they’d surely once been—a luminous sparkling blue, instead of dull and near gray.

“We have a doctor newly arrived to Timber Ridge.” The woman’s voice came out soft, like a petal opened prematurely before the final frost. Yet Elizabeth understood every word. “He hails from New York, I’m told.”

Elizabeth found herself nodding. “I didn’t know that. I’m . . . new to town.”

“I know.” Something surfaced in the woman’s expression and removed a layer of grief, if only for an instant. “I’ve heard about you.”

Elizabeth didn’t have a response for that.

The woman’s arms rested gracefully at her sides, skimming the delicate fabric of her skirt while leaving no impression on the folds. Were Southern women taken aside at a young age, to a hidden parlor, perhaps, and taught how to stand with such a regal air that it appeared as though they were not so much supporting their own weight as they were being held aloft by invisible strings? Everything about this woman was graceful, yet she exuded a tension that was nearly palpable.

Perhaps the other patrons in the store felt it as unmistakably as Elizabeth did and that was why they kept their distance. Perhaps Elizabeth should’ve done the same. She was searching for something else to say when she heard the woman take in a sharp breath.

“Forgive my boldness, but . . . would you agree to come to my home and photograph my sons?”

It took a moment for the unexpected request to register, and for its subtle desperation to sink in.

Elizabeth had photographed only one child before, and that endeavor had not ended with success. The child wouldn’t cooperate, refused to remain still. Other photographers were able to talk to children in singsong voices or cajole them with entertaining noises that bewitched them as the seconds passed, so the glass plate could be fully exposed. But not her.

It was absurd, really, but she wasn’t at all at ease in the company of children. They made her nervous. She never knew what to say to them or what to do. And when they smiled she couldn’t help but think it was at her expense. Her reaction was a throwback to less-than-fond memories of childhood but was real nevertheless.

The woman’s black-gloved hands knotted at her waist. “I would be willing to compensate you, of course.”

Elizabeth rushed to correct the misunderstanding. “No compensation is necessary, ma’am. I’d be happy to do it.” She gave a soft laugh. “But I feel compelled to tell you that I’m not gifted in relating to children, so the end result may not turn out as you desire.” Her mind skipped ahead to obvious questions—had this woman lost a child and therefore wanted images of her remaining children? Or was it her husband she mourned?

“Mrs. Boyd?”

They both turned at the man’s voice. Ben Mullins, the proprietor, had moved from behind the counter and was holding out a bag. “Here it is, Mrs. Boyd.” Mullins smiled at her. “It’s not much, but I can order more—you just say the word.”

Mrs. Boyd took the bag and drew herself up, squaring her shoulders as though she were about to enter battle. From the gauntness around her eyes and the pallor of her skin, it looked as if she’d already endured one.

“My thanks, Mr. Mullins.” She swayed for a second, as though the task of remaining upright was demanding her last ounce of strength. “I’m sure this will be fine.”

Mr. Mullins’s expression held compassion. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am. Tell your boys hello for me. I stuck a few gumdrops in there for them. Hope you don’t mind. Lyda insisted on it. She’s always been partial to your sons, as you know. Just like I have.” His voice fell away. “They remind us so much of our own.”

One side of Mrs. Boyd’s mouth trembled as though she were trying to form a smile but had forgotten how. She bowed her head, and Mr. Mullins shifted his attention.

“And about your order, Miss Westbrook . . .”

Elizabeth blinked at the sound of her name.

“Your shipment finally arrived, ma’am. I’ll get it from the back.” The blue-and-yellow gingham curtain guarding the doorway leading to the storeroom wafted at his passing.

“Seems you won’t be needing our new doctor after all.”

Elizabeth smiled at the faint whisper beside her. “No, it doesn’t seem so.” Not yet, anyway.

The woman’s task seemed complete, yet she didn’t turn to go. The thought was absurd, but Elizabeth briefly wondered whether the woman’s boots were nailed to the floor, she was so still and unmoving, like a child who’d been told to stay put and wait to be gathered.

A man walked into the store, drawing Elizabeth’s attention, and everyone else’s, it seemed. His hat nearly brushed the top of the doorframe as he passed beneath it, and he paused just inside as though searching for someone.

When his gaze settled on Mrs. Boyd, Elizabeth noted a subtle change in him.

He walked in their direction, speaking to everyone he passed without exception, addressing each man, woman, and child by name. If first impressions counted for anything, Elizabeth guessed him to be an official of Timber Ridge. Perhaps the magistrate or mayor, though she’d never seen a mayor so well loved as this man apparently was, so she decided on the former. Protectors of justice inspired adoration like few others.

“Rachel . . .” He touched Mrs. Boyd’s arm, and the imagined nails in the woman’s boots loosened.

She leaned into him. “Thank you for coming back for me.”

He kissed the top of her head and cradled it as he might have a child’s. “The boys are in the wagon. We’ll head home now.” He tipped his Stetson in Elizabeth’s direction. “Miss Westbrook, we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance, ma’am. I’m James McPherson, sheriff here in Timber Ridge.”

Silently congratulating herself at having guessed correctly, Elizabeth peered up at him. More than just a hint of the South lingered in his voice, like another man she’d met recently. “The pleasure’s mine, Sheriff. And should I be impressed or frightened that you already know my name?”

“Neither, ma’am.” His soft laugh was convincing. “I just consider it part of my job to know who’s coming and going through town.” He considered her as he slipped an arm around Rachel Boyd’s shoulders. “You’re from our nation’s capital, and from what I’ve observed, you have a particular interest in photographing our mountains. An uncommon pursuit for a woman.”

“Very good, Sheriff. And yes, I do nurture a love for photography. It’s a hobby I’ve studied for several years.”

“James . . .” Rachel looked between them. “Miss Westbrook has agreed to come to the house and photograph Mitchell and Kurt.”

Brief surprise lit his face. “Well, that’s a fine idea. My nephews are good-looking boys, Miss Westbrook. I think your camera will take to their likenesses real quick, if they’ll sit still long enough for you to catch them.”

“I’m sure I’ll find some way to persuade them.” Although Elizabeth had no idea how. She’d agreed to the request only for Rachel Boyd’s sake. Being in the company of someone grieving made people promise things they might not otherwise, in hopes of easing their pain.

Rachel reached out and grasped her hand.

Taken aback, Elizabeth stole a look at the sheriff, who seemed as surprised as she was.

Rachel’s grip—not really a handshake, more like a clasping—was gentle and womanly, so different from what Elizabeth had worked to develop with her male peers. “I admire you, Miss Westbrook. It takes courage to leave your home and come to a place like this. And then to offer to share your gift with us . . . expecting nothing in return.”

The tears in Rachel’s eyes prompted a weight to settle in Elizabeth’s chest. She silently accepted the praise while knowing herself unworthy of it. She’d hardly come to Timber Ridge expecting nothing in return.

Rachel was delicate in every way that Elizabeth was not. Her flawless ivory complexion, the way she moved—even her features seemed to have been crafted by a smaller, more skillful hand. And not a corkscrew curl on the woman’s head. Elizabeth had always felt ill at ease around such women. Until now.

Rachel squeezed her hand one last time before letting go, and seemed to come closer to remembering how to smile before once again abandoning the effort.

Sheriff McPherson gently held Rachel’s arm. “At your convenience, Miss Westbrook, please stop by the sheriff ’s office. It’s just two streets over, on the right, and we’ll arrange a day for me to escort you out to the house.”

“I’ll do that, Sheriff. Thank you.”

Elizabeth followed their progress out the door and then walked to the front window and watched Sheriff McPherson assist Mrs. Boyd into the wagon. As they drove away, she spotted two redheads over the wall of the wagon bed but couldn’t see the boys’ faces. The wagon rounded the corner at the far end of the street.

The kindness in James McPherson’s face coupled with the strength of his stature made for an odd, but powerful, combination. Especially for a lawman in such an untamed territory. If she’d been the melting type, she might have considered it a few minutes ago, but she had yet to meet a man who even came close to sweeping her away. Her career had become her companion and was filling that place inside her, satisfyingly so.

Tillie’s oft-repeated mantra about the wisdom of remaining single came to mind.
“It takes an awfully good man . . . to beat no man at all.”
Elizabeth had been well into womanhood before comprehending the meaning of the saying, but life’s experiences had proven the counsel trustworthy.

It didn’t erase the loneliness she still sometimes felt, especially late at night, but it made it more bearable when she imagined being wife to one of the many ambitious soldiers who had vied for her affections, at least on the surface. In reality, most had been vying for a higher rank through an alliance with her father. A painful truth, but one that she’d accepted, and learned from.

She studied the faces of Timber Ridge residents as they passed by on the other side of the window. Some she recognized, though she had yet to make their acquaintances.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m just checking to see if those sights your husband ordered for me came in yet.”

She recognized the voice instantly—just one aisle away—and peered over the shelf.

“And if you have some gumballs, would you add those to my order too? A box of them, please, ma’am.”

Elizabeth waited until Lyda Mullins left to fill the order before she quietly sidled up to the counter, knowing her presence would be about as welcome to this man as an invitation to attend one of her suffrage rallies.

8

G
umballs, Mr. Ranslett? Somehow I didn’t peg you as a man with a sweet tooth.”

A faint grimace crossed his face when he saw her, but that was all the reaction she earned. “Miss Westbrook . . . I didn’t see you when I came in just now.”