“All but one. They can go over there against the wall.” As he put the chairs away, she said, “I’m so glad you stopped by today. Papa will be pleased.”
“I wanted to see the shadow catcher’s daughter again before you left Del Norte.”
Eliana’s curiosity piqued. “Shadow catcher?”
“That’s what Indians call photographers. Will I see your father today?”
“He’s in town, but I expect him back anytime.”
“Good. He asked that I stop by, but I do have something that I’d like to talk to you both about.”
“All right. But now let’s get you situated for the photograph. Please place that chair directly in the center of the backdrop.”
Yiska positioned the chair per her direction.
“Now, you may sit down.”
Yiska turned the chair around, its back facing the camera, and straddled it.
Eliana giggled. “All right then, have it your way. For now.”
“That’s my aim,” he said with a grin.
Eliana tilted her head one way and then the other. “Would you mind, Mr. Wil—Yiska—if I fixed your hair? You have a slight issue of indentations from your hat.”
“Whatever you please.”
Eliana grabbed a comb from her pocket and proceeded to flatten the subtle bumps. She hadn’t realized his hair would be so thick.
He looked up at her. “You could always let me wear my hat.”
“No, I think it will be better without it.” Eliana recalled the first time she saw him—his hat was missing. In this close proximity, the scent of rich, new leather tickled her senses. How good he smelled. “Yiska, I think you ought to remove your coat.”
“That won’t be as easy as you think,” he confessed. “I’m healing up from a couple of bruised ribs.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I let you move those chairs.”
“It’s not the kind of thing a man likes to brag about.”
Eliana could tell by the way he glanced away that she shouldn’t press for an explanation. She hoped his injury wasn’t from those big-booted ruffians who had taken him to jail.
“No harm done. Now, if you could help me off with my coat, that’d be mighty nice of you.”
Eliana stood behind him and carefully pulled the coat as he released his arms from one sleeve and then the other. She laid it down on a chair, her heart aflutter. Gracious. She’d never been so intimate with a man in her life. She looked toward the front door, wishing she could go out and get a breath of fresh air. She walked over to retrieve Yiska’s hat from its hook and peeked out the window. What was taking Papa so long?
“What next?”
“Well…we must position you for the photograph. I’d rather you sat in the other direction please and place your hat on your knee. Sometimes we like to give our subjects props, and I cannot think of a more suitable one for you.”
Yiska adjusted himself accordingly.
Eliana gingerly placed her hands on his sturdy shoulders to square them, his warmth passing through her fingers. Thoughts rushed into her head of the last time she had been this close to him—the day he had helped her down from Mr. Whiley’s buckboard, and she thought he might kiss her.
She pushed a loose tendril of hair from her face and regained her bearings. “Now, when I go over to the camera to take the picture, you must remain perfectly still or the picture will be blurred, and we’ll have to go through all of this again.” She couldn’t endure it.
“How do I look?”
“You look very handsome.” Did I really say that? She was accustomed to complimenting her subjects, but not under these circumstances. Oh, how could she?
Yiska smiled.
Oh, but he had a nice mouth. And his eyes. “Mr. Wilcox, you mustn’t smile, or it will ruin everything.” She noticed a speck of jam from the raspberry turnover on his face.
“You…you have a bit of raspberry on your face.” Eliana pointed to his chin. “You know, they used raspberry syrup in the old days to keep the camera’s glass plates wet. We mostly use dry plates now.”
“Tintypes.”
“Yes, although they are actually made from iron.”
“I see.” Yiska wiped his face, and then again, missing the spot both times.
“No, here.” Eliana dabbed it away, blushing.
She turned and hastened to her camera, pulling the black tarp over her head before he could see that her face had probably reddened to the color of that raspberry jam. She wanted to remain there forever, but no…. She regained her composure and looked through the view-finder. “Mr. Wilcox! Please do not smile.”
Yiska seemed eager to watch her develop the photographs. His interest in the procedure seemed genuine. Eliana was glad to answer his questions, but she simply couldn’t allow him to be alone with her in the darkroom. He waited in the sitting area, and her thoughts swirled so much she could barely breathe by the time the processing was completed.
A short time later Eliana emerged from the darkroom and handed Yiska the finished product.
“Thank you. But I don’t know what I’ll do with it.” Yiska walked over to the display table and picked up the small portrait of her. “How about a trade?”
Eliana’s pulse quickened. “That sounds fair.” They stood silently for a moment, admiring one another’s images.
“Good news!” Papa waddled into the studio carrying a huge box. “Our supplies have arrived! We can leave any day now.”
And when they did, apart from his photograph, would Eliana ever lay eyes on Yiska again?
Chapter 6
Trask Whiley watched Yiska count out the boxes of ammunition. Yiska looked up. “Fifteen Henry rifles, eighteen Winchesters, and fifty rounds for each. You could stand to get a dozen more traps. I’ve written it all down.”
“You’ve got a good head for business, Yiska. Perhaps I should keep you off the trail and have you work here in the store instead.”
Although Yiska missed being out in the territory, he didn’t mind staying at the store for a bit to take stock of the outfitting company’s inventory. “You’ll need to increase your supplies of mining equipment, too. They’re coming in droves.”
“How’re your ribs healing up?”
“Much better now, though I can’t lift anything heavy yet.”
“Glad you can still lift a pencil. You’ve been mighty handy around here lately.” Whiley placed a hand on Yiska’s shoulder. “Time to take a break.”
They sat on the front porch, sipping cups of strong coffee. Whiley targeted a nearby spittoon. How Mr. Whiley drank and chewed at the same time, Yiska would never know. He kicked back, stretched out his legs, and pulled his hat over his eyes while Whiley browsed The Prospector for the competition’s advertising.
“Richmond is selling mining supplies now, too. He’s got pickaxes and shovels for two bits apiece under my price. What does he mean by underselling me? I’m going over there.”
He left The Prospector sitting on the wooden bench, and Yiska caught it as it was about to blow away. He looked at the front page, catching a headline—HAYDEN CONTINUES TO SURVEY WESTERN Loop. Soon enough Chandler Robbins would be making the headlines. Yiska hoped they wouldn’t read FEMALE PHOTOGRAPHER CAPTURED BY UTES. If Eliana was going on that expedition, he had to find a way to go as well.
As he flipped through the pages he couldn’t get Eliana’s pretty face, her bright hazel eyes, and hair the color of a fawn out of his mind. Nor could he remove the image of her lovely feminine form, the way she moved, the scent of lavender that wafted through the air in her presence—or the yearning that he had to explore the territory of her heart.
Another headline snagged his attention. Yiska could hardly believe his eyes. An article had been published under the pseudonym, “Anonymous Explorer.” He skimmed it, his pulse rocketing as he read. It was an entry from his missing journal! A glance at the print ending the column told him this was not the first but the second entry from a journal that had been turned in to
the newspaper’s editor, Mr. Wilson, and that Wilson was eager to make the acquaintance of its owner.
Yiska jumped to his feet, paced the porch, then whacked his hat against the post. This was his prized journal, his faithful companion, and his hope to become accredited as a travel correspondent in the Southwest. He’d planned to submit some of his entries to a newspaper in the East—one which did not have the “benefit” of knowing his heritage. Mr. Wilson would never believe it if Yiska came forward to reveal that the journal belonged to him. He looked at his hat, now all dented. He needed someone who could speak on his behalf. He’d better track down Trask Whiley.
“Now you’re talking sense, Richmond.” As he went into the mercantile, Yiska found Mr. Whiley “negotiating” with Mr. Richmond. He turned to Yiska. “What is it?” he barked.
“I need your help,” Yiska said.
Whiley exhaled and held up his hand. “All right.” He looked back at Richmond. “I believe we’ve come to an understanding.” Whiley stomped into the street and started walking. “So what is it? Don’t mean to be impatient. He just got my dander up.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Alice.” Mr. Van Horn said.
“How do you do, Mr. Van Horn? Is Eliana here?”
“I’m right here, Alice.” Eliana lifted her head from behind the counter. “I’m packing our supplies.” She wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “Your photographs are done. I’m glad you stopped by.”
Mr. Van Horn smiled at Alice as he stepped aside to let her enter. “And they came out quite well, I might add. It’s getting harder all the time to tell the difference between my talented daughter’s photographs and my own.”
“She’s one special girl,” Alice said. “I’m sure going to miss her. Eliana, do you have time for tea at Mrs. Sanborn’s café?”
“Well, I don’t know….”
“Sure she does,” her father said. “I’ve been working her hard enough.”
At the café Mrs. Sanborn served Eliana and Alice a pot of hot tea with some warm apple muffins and a fresh bit of gossip. “That anonymous author in The Prospector is the talk of the town. He has all the men hankering to get out into the mountains and all the women practically swooning.” The girls giggled as Mrs. Sanborn walked away to serve another table with the same dish.
“I wish you could stay longer.” A forlorn sigh escaped Alice’s pouty lips.
“We can correspond. Lake City opened a post office. Please don’t act like you’ll never see me again.”
“Perhaps I won’t. You’ll probably become a famous female photographer and run off with that Indian.”
“Alice! Mind your imagination. I’ll do no such thing.”
Alice’s eyes grew mischievous. “You can’t tell me that you haven’t at least thought of it.”
Eliana looked down. Her cheeks must be all shades of red. She looked up at Alice and burst into giggles, quickly covering her mouth.
“I knew it! Your secret is safe with me. And your other one also.”
Eliana feigned innocence. “What do you mean?” Could she possibly know?
Alice declared in a soft voice, “Eliana Van Horn, you have been disguising yourself as a man!”
Eliana grabbed Alice’s hand. “Shhhh! I cannot believe you know! Please, Alice, you cannot tell a living soul. Papa only agrees to it for my protection.” She dared not mention the expedition.
“I won’t breathe a word. I would never want any harm to come to you.” Alice blotted her napkin against her lips. “Now, how about confessing your undying love for that Yiska fellow.”
“Alice, I do not love Yiska. Not in that way. I only care for him as I would any of God’s children.”
“Is he a child of God, Eliana, or is he a heathen?” Alice asked.
Eliana wished she knew. There was a long silence.
Alice mouthed the words. “Has he ever kissed you?”
“Kissed me? I hardly know him.” But she had thought about it. Did that count?
Eliana was relieved when Alice picked up the newspaper that had been left behind on a vacant table. “Oh, look! There’s another article by the Anonymous Explorer. Listen to this:
The sand shifts like shadows underneath my tired feet. Though paths are worn before me, some I have trod alone and beckon others to follow. The cliffs rise to tell legends from days of old. And tales anew I write, to share these wonders with those who might otherwise have never known.
Eliana and Alice sighed in perfect harmony. Alice placed her hand against her chest. “Isn’t the author romantic?”
“Beyond compare. Now that is one I could spend my dreams on. Yet I can’t help but feel that I had a hand in betraying his confidence, by giving over his journal only to see it end up in print. Those reflections are immensely personal.” Eliana also felt a pang of guilt that these thoughts had betrayed her feelings for Yiska.
“You needn’t feel bad. How do you know that you haven’t done the author a good deed?”
“Look here, Wilson. I’ve known this young man for more than ten years. He’s like a son to me. I know, I know—you’re thinking a half breed can’t possibly write like that. But my own mother schooled him herself when he lived with them. I know firsthand that he can read and write better than I can.” Mr. Whiley walked toward the window to cool down and faced Wilson again. “Read just one sentence of any one of those entries, and he can tell you what happened next. He knows all those places like the back of his hand. As a matter of fact, he should be compensated for those articles.”
“Here now, Whiley. I’ve never known you to be a dishonest man. I’ll take your word for it.” Mr. Wilson looked at Yiska, confounded. “Young man, have a seat.”
Mr. Wilson rocked back in his chair. “Yiska, you’ve captured your audience with the enthusiasm of dime novels. I’d like to print the rest of your journal. In fact, I’ve already taken the liberty of having it copied. And I’d like to see more. Of course, for now you’ll continue to be hailed as the ‘Anonymous Explorer.’ We’ve got newspapers to sell.”
How this disaster turned into a writing job, Yiska didn’t know. And had Mr. Whiley really said that Yiska was like a son to him? After ironing out some of the particulars for his compensation and future publication, Mr. Wilson offered another proposition. “One of my correspondents suddenly came down with the measles. I need someone capable to handle an assignment for me out in the San Juans. Silverton. It’s an interview with Francis Snowden.” He slid a piece of paper across the desk toward Yiska. “The details are right here. What do you say, Mr. Wilcox?”
“I’d be happy to do it, sir.”
Yiska stood and shook Mr. Wilson’s hand then turned to shake Whiley’s, who offered his support. Yiska would still be a trail guide, but he would now have the added pleasure of writing about what he saw for pay. Things couldn’t have turned out better.
Wilson took Yiska’s journal out of a desk drawer. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Yiska held it with both hands. “Thank you, Mr. Wilson. I feel like I’ve been reunited with an old friend.”
“One more thing. I’ve hired someone to take a picture of Snowden to accompany the interview. You might even meet up with them out there. Van Horn Photography. Do you know them?”
Chapter 7
Eliana pulled the shawl around her shoulders and yawned as she waited with her father at the station agent’s window at Barlow & Sanderson’s Overland Stage & Express Line. The mixture of the chilled morning air and her eagerness to be under way perked her awake. She looked forward to going home to Lake City and seeing her friends, though their time there would be brief and busy with further preparation—the expedition now only weeks away. Only one thing lingered on her mind, and soon she could leave that thought behind her.
“Two tickets. Del Norte to Lake City,” Papa said.
The station agent motioned to the attendant to weigh the trunk and cartons filled with their photography equipment.
The attendant grabbed the trunk stamped
VAN HORN PHOTOGRAPHY. “What’s in here, mining tools?” Obviously the man couldn’t read.
“Easy with that—it’s fragile,” said Eliana’s father.
“Ain’t stamped FRAGILE.”
Papa tapped the trunk. “Right there. FRAGILE. Now go easy.”
The attendant nodded and moved with great care. Did he think it was full of explosives? No matter. If he dropped that trunk with her father’s expensive equipment inside, there’d be an explosion one way or another. Though usually a patient man, Papa’s ire would certainly rise if the tools of his livelihood were damaged. He’d spent a good deal on his new equipment, and it was going to cost him a great deal to get it home.
“Two passengers. Eighty miles each. That’ll be a grand total of forty dollars and fifty cents,” the agent said.
Eliana gasped. But Papa would recoup his investment once he got paid for his work as a technician on the Robbins survey.
The man looked at Eliana over his spectacles then addressed her father. “That’s twelve dollars each and twenty-two cents a pound for your extra baggage. You’ll pay for your meals along the way. Full meals are two bits each.”
Papa retrieved the payment from his wallet and placed several paper notes and a couple of pieces of silver on the counter.
The station agent stamped their tickets and turned to the attendant. “What are you waiting for? Take that baggage out to the Concord. It pulls out of here at five o’clock sharp.”
Eliana adjusted her bonnet and took note of the other passengers waiting to board the stagecoach. How many passengers would travel with them? A middle-aged couple and another rather stocky man with several carpetbags stood nearby. The grease in the gentleman’s hair would be covered in dust by the time they arrived at the relay station. At least Papa remembered not to apply his own Thompson’s Magnificent Hair Tonic for Men today. He looked better without it.
Eliana listened as the woman read the rules of The Barlow & Sanderson’s Stage & Express Line from her brochure to her traveling companions. “Are you armed, dear? These rules are quite specific…. ‘Firearms may be kept on your person for use in emergencies. Do not fire them for pleasure or shoot at wild animals, as the sound riles the horses. In the event of runaway horses remain calm. Leaping from the coach in panic will leave you injured, at the mercy of the elements, highwaymen, hostile Indians, and hungry coyotes.’” The woman’s jaw dangled open.
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