2
y the time Molly reached the station depot where the baggage had been unloaded, only her trunks remained. Winded, she handed her baggage tickets to the young steward standing watch.
"I wondered who all this belonged to" He checked the stubs affixed to each of the trunks. "All accounted for. You sure don't travel light, do you, ma'am?"
His youthful grin reminded her of the steward in Atlanta who'd said much the same thing. "I'm a professor. Most of these are filled with books and curriculum:" Though she doubted there would be much call for teaching Italian, French, or Spanish-her areas of linguistic studyin a backwoods mountain town. Especially when she would be teaching children, something she hadn't done in years. And that she hadn't enjoyed the first time around. "Where might I find the stage for Timber Ridge?"
He motioned to a stagecoach at the far end of the boardwalk. "But he's about to pull out, ma'am" He glanced at her luggage. "I don't think he's got room enough for all this, anyway. We have us a hotel down there a ways. Four rooms total. If you hurry, maybe you can-"
Molly pressed some coins into his hand. "Would you please catch the driver of that stage before he leaves? And ask if he has room for another passenger?" She had no intention of staying in Sulfur Falls for the night. "And determine how many of these trunks he can accommodate:"
The steward tipped his hat. "Will do, Mrs..."
Seeing him glance at the ring on her left hand, Molly's mind raced. The town council in Timber Ridge-the board who had hired heralready knew her last name. No need in muddying the already murky waters. "It's Mrs. Whitcomb. Professor-" She stopped herself. No longer teaching college, she couldn't exactly continue using that title. But she did still have her doctorate. "Dr. Molly Whitcomb, actually;" she said, hoping the steward would address her in that fashion.
"Will do, Mrs. Whitcomb." The young man sprinted down the boardwalk.
Minutes later, Molly found herself seated inside the stagecoach with a rather girthsome gentleman occupying the opposite bench. Grateful to be spared the experience of spending a night in Sulfur Falls, she situated her satchel-the single piece of luggage the driver, a Mr. Lewis, had said he could accommodate-on the seat beside her. The rest of her belongings would be shipped by wagon, as the steward had suggested, to arrive in a day or two. She hoped. But at least she had some toiletries, and the periodical she'd purchased at the train station in Atlanta.
She opened the dog-eared magazine to the marked page. Having read the article countless times, she practically knew it by heart and hoped for the chance to meet the woman who had-
Catching a whiff of something, she stole a glance at the man across from her. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were half closed. She guessed him to be asleep. Either that or "sleeping one off;" as she'd heard said.
"I'm tellin' you, I'm not takin' on any more luggage! I'm loaded as heavy as I can manage for this trip:'
Hearing the driver's voice, Molly peered out the window, wanting to make sure he wasn't referring to her trunks. She spotted Mr. Lewis-and a gentleman speaking to him.
The gentleman, well dressed in a suit and top hat, faced Mr. Lewis, his feet firmly planted. "You're a good man, Mr. Lewis, and a wise one. I appreciate your attention to detail. But you know as well as I that two more trunks won't make that much difference. Not with your fine animals in the harness:"
"I'm tellin' you, I can't do it! The roads are soft with recent rains, and I won't risk gettin' bogged down again on the side of a cliff. Took me half a day to dig out last time:'
Bogged down again? On the side of a clif Molly's interest in the conversation was piqued.
"Again, Mr. Lewis, I trust your instincts and experience beyond measure. However, I'm none too eager to part with the contents of these trunks and am therefore willing"-the man reached inside his suit-"to pay an additional fee for my passage on your stage this afternoon"
"I told you, Tolliver, I'm not-"
Lewis fell silent, and Molly strained to see what the man held out to him. Whatever it is, Mr. Lewis, don't take it. Don't let yourself be-
Her eyes went wide at the stack of bills, and her jaw slipped open as she counted along with the driver. For that amount of money, she would've dragged the trunks up the mountain herself.
Lewis eyed the taller man as he fingered the bills. Then he stuffed them into his vest pocket. "If my rig gets stuck, Tolliver, you'll be the first to get out and start diggin'!"
Tolliverbowed. `And I'll do it gladly. Thankyou, Mr. Lewis." He turned and Molly averted her gaze, but not before he'd caught her staring.
He opened the door, briefly assessed the seating arrangement, and looked in her direction. "Dear lady, would you be so kind?"
Already retrieving her satchel, Molly scooted to the far side of the cushioned bench. He climbed in and claimed the space beside her, placing the fine leather case in his grip on the floor at his feet. He took up well more than half the space, though not without excuse. He was a broadshouldered man and muscular.
Molly shot a glance at their traveling partner seated opposite them, only to find his eyes still closed and his chin slumped forward on his chest. His soft snores grew steadily louder.
"Brandon Tolliver, madam:"
As was customary, she offered her hand. "Dr. Molly Whitcomb:"
He brushed a kiss across her fingertips, his expression registering surprise. And-if she wasn't mistaken-a spark of recognition, though that was impossible.
"Doctor?" He held her hand longer than decorum allowed. "I'm duly impressed:"
His tone, however, said quite the opposite, as did his smirk, and Molly returned her hand to her lap, feeling pretentious now for introducing herself that way. But the title was hard earned, and people thought nothing of it when a male colleague introduced himself in that manner. "If that's truly the case, Mr. Tolliver, then I fear your respect is too easily won." She smiled to soften the barb.
He pressed closer on the seat. "Respect? I never said anything about respect, my dear woman. But admiration, on the other hand"-his gaze took in more than her face, and more than a gentleman's should-"is another issue entirely. Has anyone ever told you, you're much too pretty to be a schoolteacher?"
Molly did a pitiful job of masking her surprise. "How did you know-"
He laughed. "There was an article about you in the newspaper, Dr. Whitcomb. Woman professor comes west to teach children;" he said, punctuating each word with a gesture and with counterfeit enthusiasm. "I believe that's how the headline read. But never did I dream that a college professor could be so-"
He paused, and Molly trailed his focus to her left hand resting on the satchel in her lap.
He slowly straightened. "Mrs. Doctor Molly Whitcomb?" His eyes narrowed. "A married woman who's maintained her independence ... that's something one doesn't see very often. And something that wasn't included in that newspaper article." He huffed a laugh. "The town council must be more open-minded than I thought."
"You got enough room in there, Mrs. Whitcomb?"
Welcoming the interruption in conversation, Molly directed her attention to Mr. Lewis, who stood peering in the window. "Yes, sir. I'm fine, thank you."
"All righty, then, we'll get under way." The stage leaned to one side as Mr. Lewis climbed to the driver's perch, and Molly held on as the coach jerked into motion.
The clomp of horse hooves and the squeak of the stage-along with cavernous snores from their traveling partner-drowned out any chance of normal conversation. She was careful not to look in Brandon Tolliver's direction again, having no desire to continue their dialogue.
What he'd said had caught her attention, though-about the newspaper article not including that she was married, and about the town council being more open-minded than he'd thought. Perhaps her solution wasn't the best idea after all. But what could she do now? Any chance of turning back, either literally or figuratively, was gone.
She felt Tolliver looking at her, but he didn't pursue conversation.
Grateful
for the time to sort her thoughts, Molly scanned the article in the magazine, familiar now with its contents, and compared the author's descriptions of these mountains to the scenery outside her window. Both were breathtaking. Elizabeth Westbrook Ranslett, the author of the article and-according to the note at the end-the editor of the Timber Ridge Reporter, painted word pictures with such authenticity and beauty that Molly felt as if she were seeing the surrounding scenery for the second time, instead of her first.
Enjoying the cool breeze on her face, she slipped the magazine into her satchel and settled back into the seat.
Evergreen trees of all shapes and sizes populated the mountainside, and she took a deep breath, relishing the pungent, incongruous scent of Christmas in summer. The higher the stage climbed, the cooler the temperature grew, and the more vibrant the air. The waning afternoon sun seemed to race toward the western peaks, its light filtering through dingy gray storm clouds and bathing the vista in a silvery veil.
As she'd ridden the train west and watched these mountains rise from the dusty floor of the plains, their magnificence had been undeniable. Their rugged beauty had beckoned, but it also held warning. And she experienced that warning again as her gaze skimmed over the edge of the cliff, plunged downward into the chasm, and then rose with determination to the jagged peaks still ribboned with snow.
Stark and pristine in its beauty, the rugged land she passed through was every bit as wild and untamed-and awe-inspiring-as the article in the periodical professed it to be.
She'd heard people speak of the western territories before but had never paid much attention, until recently. They said life out west was different, that things were possible here that weren't back east. She prayed that was true.
Facing the back of the coach, she wished again that the opposite bench had been available when she'd boarded. She never traveled well when facing backward, even under ordinary circumstances, and was feeling more than a touch queasy with all the bouncing around. Not to mention she feared sliding from her seat at any moment.
With concern, she watched as the road narrowed and finally thinned to a few scant feet of earth jutting from the side of the mountain. Perhaps she should have inquired how long Mr. Lewis had been driving the stage. Odd what trust she'd placed in a man she didn't even know.
Mindful of the sleeping passenger across from her, Molly discreetly braced her feet against the opposite cushioned bench and held tight to the satchel in her lap.
The bruised sky soon delivered on its threat and a light rain began to fall.
Within minutes, it became a downpour, and she and Mr. Tolliver worked quickly to lower the curtains on the coach windows. Once tied down, the heavy fabric kept out most of the rain, as well as the light. The air quickly grew musty and thick in the enclosed space. The stage jostled and jolted beneath them, and Molly gripped the door, trying to exercise enough discipline not to peek through the crack in the curtains on her side to where the edge of the road abruptly ended.
Thunder rumbled over the mountains, and she held her breath each time until the noise passed. Its reverberation echoed inside her chest.
Tolliver leaned close. "Don't be alarmed, ma'am;" he said, half yelling. "We're used to this. Storms pass quickly up here. And Lewis has been driving these mountain roads all his life:"
Wishing she were comforted, Molly raised her voice to be heard over the wind and rain. "Thank you ... Mr. Tolliver." Her fingers ached from holding so tightly to the door and her satchel, and she clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling.
A loud cough contributed to the thunder overhead, followed by a gravelly snore. She stared across from her, disbelieving. How could their traveling partner sleep through this!
Oh, God, why did I agree to come here? Why hadn't she stayed in Georgia? She still had the family home her father had left to her. She could have found another job doing something-anything-and tried to make a new life there. But as soon as those thoughts came, so did their impossibility. She would never have been able to start over there. Not with Jeremy getting married and her watching it all unfold while sidestepping inquiries about her sudden dismissal from Franklin College.
The stage hit a bump and Molly flew off the seat.
Screaming, she grappled for a hold and came down hard on the bench. The coach shuddered as though sharing her terror, and Tolliver swore beside her.
A high-pitched scream split the air, only this time it didn't come from her.
Another scream followed, and another. Primal, elongated squeals that sent chills down her spine. Realization knifed through her. It was the horses! Something was happening to the horses-
Without warning, the coach shimmied to one side and slid to a stop.
Relieved, cautious, Molly let out a held breath as the gentleman across from her sat upright. He belched, and the stench of stale bourbon soured the closed compartment. With surprising quickness, he stood, and his head met the ceiling with a loud thwack. Swaying, he sank back down, his head lolling. Molly found herself praying he wouldn't be sick.
The coach began moving again. But ... it wasn't its usual forward motion. Gone was the bumping and bouncing. Maybe the road had smoothed out. Or perhaps-
Then she felt it, and her insides melted. Something was terribly wrong. They were moving, but downhill! Sliding ...
Tolliver's arm came around behind her, and she thought he meant to shield her, but he braced himself instead. She did likewise and watched the large man across from them slump to one side.
Thunder roiled overhead, and everything took on a slower motion.
Mr. Lewis yelled something from the driver's seat. To them? To the horses? Whatever he shouted was lost in the confusion and noise. A loud crack-and the world spun.
Molly slammed against the side of the coach and pain exploded in her shoulder. Tolliver landed against her with a grunt. He shifted and groaned beside her. She waited for him to move, but he didn't. Another hard jolt whipped them backward, and her head smacked the wood paneling behind the seat. Pain fanned out across the back of her head as something landed on top of her, knocking the air from her lungs, pinning her down.
She tried to move but couldn't.
Arching her back, she fought to get a decent breath as lights danced before her eyes. The rancid smell of soured bourbon told her whator who-was on top of her. She tried to push him off, but it was no use.
Then everything went strangely still. And silent.
She glanced beside her. "Mr. Tolliver?" she said, nudging him. "Mr. Tolliver!" His head slipped forward, and she fought a rising tide of panic. Blood marred the right side of his face. Tears rising in her throat, she shook the man on top of her. "Sir?" She shook him harder. "Sir!"
He didn't respond. Didn't move. But he shared every putrid exhale.
The walls closed in around her. She needed air! She had to have air!
Blindly groping along the door panel, she finally located the latch. And pulled.
Nothing.
Teeth gritted, she tried again, harder this time, putting her weight against it, but the latch wouldn't budge. Her fingers brushed against one of the leather ties that held the curtain in place, and frantic, she worked at it until the loop slipped free. Feeling a trickle of relief, she pushed the curtain aside and took in a deep breath-that never reached her lungs.
The ravine opened below like a hungry mouth gaping wide.
Molly tried to scream, but the sound lodged like a fist at the base of her throat. For a brief, agonizing instant, she imagined what it was going to feel like as she plummeted downward and her body hit the jagged rocks far below.
With renewed motivation, she fought to move beneath the weight pinning her down-and felt the stagecoach shift. A chill crept through her. She began to tremble. Her jaw shook. And every thought fled except one.
She was going to die on the side of this mountain-she and her unborn child-and she wasn't ready yet.
3
indful of how the road narrowed along this stret
ch, James McPherson nudged his horse closer to the mountain, his earlier run-in with Brandon Tolliver in Sulfur Falls still wearing on him. He pulled his Stetson lower over his eyes, a shield from the drizzle. Judging from the clearing in the clouds overhead, it looked like the worst of the storm had moved past. Unusual amount of rain for this time of year.
He'd tried to get Tolliver to see reason, but the man could be downright obstinate when he wanted to be. James smiled. Not that he'd ever been accused of being obstinate. As sheriff of Timber Ridge, he was all for progress and growth, but the safety of the people was at the center of every decision he made. Both for the folks who'd lived in Timber Ridge since the town was founded, and for newcomers who seemed to be arriving in droves every day.
Construction of Tolliver's Colorado Hot Springs Resort was providing much-needed jobs, especially since the Shady Susan silver mine had all but stopped producing. Miners were looking for work until a new mine struck it big, and Tolliver's venture was giving the town's economy a boost. James shifted in the saddle. But the construction of the new resort was also causing all sorts of problems between locals and immigrants. Every day, tensions escalated. Locals accused "foreigners" of taking jobs they considered rightfully belonged to them, while-
James's thoughts fell away as he rounded the corner. He struggled to make sense of the scene before him.
At first he thought the rain and afternoon shadows were playing tricks on him. But when he heard a woman scream, he knew what he was seeing was real. He jumped from his horse and grabbed the coiled rope looped around the saddle horn.
The switchback trail was saturated from the rains, and twice he slipped as he clambered uphill. He recognized the coach as belonging to Lewis, but the scene was surreal. The stage lay on its side, hugging the rocky edge of the cliff, partially suspended over the ravine. The team of horses-frenzied and wild-eyed-was still harnessed, and each time the animals strained forward in the mud and then let up, the stage edged closer to the drop-off, threatening to take the animals with it.
James slogged through the mud and gripped the harness of the lead mare. He whispered low, trying to hold her steady.
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 02] Page 2