Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01]
Page 1
Praise and honors for Tamera’s first series,
FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES
“Tamera Alexander’s characters are real, fallible, and a marvelous reflection of God’s truth and grace. Her stories unfold layer-by-layer, drawing you in deeper with every page.”
Armchair Interviews
“[A] tenderhearted story of redemption.… Rarely does a debut novel combine such a masterful blend of captivating story and technical excellence. Alexander has introduced a delightful cast of winsome characters, and there’s a promise of more stories yet to be told.”
Aspiring Retail
“This second book in the Fountain Creek Chronicles reveals the power of love and forgiveness. All of the characters in the story are interesting and complex, even if they play minor roles. A warm-hearted inspirational story.”
Historical Novels Review
“Alexander again delivers a most amazing story. The characters are more than words on a page; they become real people.”
Romantic Times
“This follow-up to Rekindled and Revealed is a rich historical romance by possibly the best new writer in this sub-genre.”
Library Journal (Starred Review)
Rekindled was named to Library Journal’s Best Books of 2006 list,
was a nominee for Romantic Times’s
Best Inspirational Novel of 2006,
and was a finalist for the 2007 RITA Awards for
Best First Book and
Best Inspirational Romance.
Revealed won the 2007 Romance Writer’s of America RITA Award
for Best Inspirational Romance.
FROM A DISTANCE
Books by
Tamera Alexander
FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS
FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES
Rekindled
Revealed
Remembered
TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS
From a Distance
Beyond This Moment
TAMERA
ALEXANDER
FROM A
DISTANCE
TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS
From a Distance
Copyright © 2008
Tamera Alexander
Cover design by Studio Gearbox
Cover photograph by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.
Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations identified NIV are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Alexander, Tamera.
From a distance / Tamera Alexander.
p. cm. — (Timber Ridge reflections.)
ISBN 978-0-7642-0389-3 (pbk.)
1. Women photographers—Fiction. 2. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.L3563F76 2008
813'.6—dc22
2008002405
* * *
To Kelsey,
I’m so thankful God gave you to us.
But even more, that you
gave yourself to Him.
“All these people were still living by faith when they died.
They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.”
HEBREWS 11:13A NIV
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
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10
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13
14
15
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18
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20
21
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23
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25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
Epilogue
A Note from Tamera
Acknowledgments
1
ROCKY MOUNTAINS, COLORADO TERRITORY
APRIL 15, 1875
Elizabeth Garrett Westbrook stepped closer to the cliff ’s edge, not the least intimidated by the chasm’s vast plunge. Every moment of her life had been preparing her for this. That knowledge was as certain within her as the thrumming inside her chest. At thirty-two, she still wasn’t the woman she wanted to be, which was partially why she’d traveled nineteen hundred miles west to Timber Ridge, Colorado Territory. To leave behind a life she’d settled for, in exchange for the pursuit of a dream, for however long she had left.
A chill fingered its way past her woolen coat, into her shirtwaist, and through the cotton chemise that lay beneath. She pulled the coat closer about her chest and viewed the seamless river and valley carved far below, the mountains heaved up and ragged, draped in brilliant dawn to the limits of sight. She peered down to where the earth ended abruptly at the tips of her boots and the canyon plunged to breathtaking depths.
The Chronicle offices in Washington, D.C., were housed in a four-story building, and she estimated that at least ten of those buildings could be stacked one atop the other and still not reach the height of the cliff where she stood. She’d never before experienced such a sense of possibility. Standing here, she felt so small in comparison to all of this, yet in awe that the same Creator who had orchestrated such grandeur was also orchestrating the dissonant fragments of her life.
The competition had been rigorous, but she’d made it—one of three final candidates being considered for the position of staff photographer and journalist at the Washington Daily Chronicle. The other two candidates were men—men she’d met, liked and respected, and who knew how to frame the world through a lens as well as they did with words—which meant she would have to work extra hard to prove herself.
A breeze stirred, and she brushed back a curl. She inhaled the crisp, cold air, held it captive in her lungs, and then gave it gradual release, as the doctors had instructed. Hailed for its purity and ability to heal, the mountain air was even thinner than she had expected, and more invigorating.
Refocusing on her task, she strapped on her shoulder pack and checked the knotted rope encircling her waist for a second time, then untied her boots and placed one stockinged foot onto the felled tree.
She tested her weight on the natural bridge and judged it would more than hold her. Even though the tree looked solid, she’d learned the hard way that things were not always as they appeared. She trailed her gaze along the length of the gnarled trunk to where it met with the opposite ledge some twenty feet away. Heights had never bothered her, but once she started across, she purpos
ed to never look down. Better to keep your focus on the goal rather than on the obstacles.
She adjusted the weight of her pack, concentrating, focusing, and took that crucial first step.
“Don’t you go fallin’ there, Miz Westbrook!”
Startled by the interruption, Elizabeth stepped back to safety and turned to look behind her. Josiah stood on the winding mountain trail, gripping the other end of the rope that was secured to a tree behind him.
Uncertainty layered his mahogany features. “I’s just offerin’ one last warnin’, ma’am. ’Fore you set out.”
Heart in her throat, she tried to sound kind. “I assure you, I’m fine, Josiah. I’ve done this countless times.” Though, granted, never over so great a height. But be it eight feet or eight hundred, the ability to traverse a chasm successfully lay in focus and balance. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. “But it would help me if you would stop your screaming.”
His soft laughter was as deep as the canyon and gentle as the breeze. “I ain’t screamin’, ma’am. Womenfolk, now, they scream. Us men, we yells.”
She threw him a reproving look. “Then, please . . . stop your man-like yelling.”
He tugged at the rim of his worn slouch hat. “I won’t be havin’ to yell if you’d start actin’ like a normal-headed woman. Instead of some . . . hoople-head traipsin’ herself across a log for some picture of a bird’s nest.”
The felled tree was large, nearly fifty inches in circumference, hardly the log Josiah referred to, and crossing it to the opposite ledge would provide a better vantage point of the eagle’s nest. The aerie was built on a precipice jutting from the side of the mountain, slightly below the level of the cliff and some thirty feet beyond. The photograph of the nest with the chasm below and the mountains in the backdrop would be breathtaking—if she didn’t fall and break her neck first.
She’d crossed wider drop-offs on much narrower tree bridges than this. Doing such things always made her feel a little like a girl again, and took her back to a time when she hadn’t yet been told that certain things were impossible.
“May I remind you that I’m paying you, very well”—she raised a brow, appreciating the ease of banter they’d shared since the outset of their association—“to carry my equipment and assist me in my work, not to offer opinions on my decisions.”
“Ain’t no extra charge for them, ma’am. They’s free.”
She shook her head at his broad smile. For the past week Josiah Birch had followed her instructions to the letter, as well he should. When properly motivated, the Washington Daily Chronicle had deep pockets.
Two other men had applied for the job as her assistant. They’d both seemed capable, but there was something about Josiah Birch that she innately trusted. He wasn’t an educated man, but he knew how to read and write, and he’d learned to handle and mix the chemical solutions for her trade as fast as she had. And that he weighed twice what she did and held the excess in lean hard muscle and in an honest, open gaze had only bolstered his nonexistent résumé.
Focusing again, Elizabeth placed her right foot on the tree. Arms outstretched like a tightrope walker’s, she compensated for the heavier-than-usual shoulder pack and took a carefully plotted first step.
Then a second step. And a third . . .
Approximately twelve feet below, a rock ledge protruded from the mountainside. It would break her fall should the rope fail for any reason, but the ledge only extended out halfway beneath the natural bridge. From there, it was a sheer drop down to the canyon floor. Not easily intimidated by heights, she kept her focus on her footing and occasionally glanced to the other side.
Inch by inch, the ledge disappeared from view. She resisted the temptation to look down at the river winding like a snake in the valley below. A gust of wind came from behind and pitched her forward. Loose curls blew into her eyes. She flailed for footing . . . and found it. But the rope around her waist suddenly went taut and pulled her back.
“No, Josiah!”
Every muscle in her body tensed. Her back spasmed. She struggled to stay upright. The weight strapped to her shoulders tempted her to lean forward, but leaning too far could prove disastrous. Then she did what she knew not to do—
The snaking river below blurred in her sight.
She quickly pulled her gaze back to the ledge and, as taught from the age of six, imagined a ramrod extending from heaven’s gate straight down through her spine and into the tree trunk beneath her. Slowly she felt her chin lift. As did her shoulders. Her legs trembled, but she regained her equilibrium and continued on across, one foot in front of the other.
With a rush of exhilaration she stepped from the tree onto solid rock again. Terra firma. She brushed back her hair and, masking her relief, looked at Josiah standing on the opposite ridge. “There, you see? I told you not to worry.”
His dark eyes were wide, his knuckles a noticeably lighter shade as he gripped the rope. “You done scared ten years off’a me, ma’am. And they’s years I coulda used.” As if an invisible weight had been removed, his broad shoulders lifted.
Elizabeth set down her pack and opened it, excitement still coursing through her. A bit more excitement than she’d bargained for, but having made it across only sweetened the success. “I’m sorry, Josiah. That wasn’t my intent. But I’ve been doing this since I was a little girl. I used to outrun and outclimb every boy I knew.” She eyed the eagle’s nest a good twenty feet away. “I could outride them too.”
“Bet them boys liked playin’ with you, all right.”
“Actually . . . no. They didn’t like it because I never let them win. Not when I could help it anyway.” She unpacked her equipment, mindful of the rope still tied about her waist, and a particular memory came to mind. A memory of an afternoon at the riding stables, years ago. She’d felt similar exhilaration then as she did now—until her father discovered what had transpired. A bully of a boy had challenged her to a horse race. And she’d beaten him squarely. At the time she hadn’t known that he was the son of her father’s superior officer, and had not considered the possibility that her father and his fellow officers would catch her riding straddle-legged and wearing breeches beneath her skirt.
She’d long ago given up trying to forget the embarrassment that had darkened his face. And little had she known then what a defining moment that would be in her life.
Made of sticks and larger twigs, the aerie appeared to be at least seven feet wide and nearly that deep, and was built onto a ledge in the side of the mountain. Masterful. Even at this distance, she could distinguish feathers and tufts of grayish white down protruding from the sides. The nest was empty, for now. If only its occupant were nearby so she could capture a photograph of it too. Not that an eagle would remain stationary long enough for her to take its picture. That’s what made taking pictures of animals—and fidgety people—such a challenge. If the subject moved, even the slightest bit, the image appeared ghosted once she developed it.
Since seeing the photographs of a place called Yosemite two years earlier, she’d dreamed of coming to the western territories, of taking photographs of the frontier—a place so far removed from the nation’s capital and Maryland, her birthplace.
While landscapes such as the one before her were breathtaking, pictures of wildlife were what Wendell Goldberg, her employer at the Chronicle, truly wanted. Spectacular photographs of wildlife he’d written in a telegram days earlier—as if she needed the reminder. Along with those photographs, he wanted real-life adventures from people who lived in the West. Stories that championed the human spirit and that would entice would-be travelers and game hunters to venture west to the Colorado Territory—patronizing a travel company that was conveniently owned by the Chronicle’s largest shareholder, Adam Chilton.
The travel company was only a small portion of Chilton Enterprises. The bulk of the company’s fortune lay in hotel properties, specifically resort spas. Word had spread back east about the therapeutic hot springs in
this region. Their curative powers were the topic of conversation at extravagant cotillions and women’s teas, and their attributes were lauded in the plush leather surroundings of gentlemen’s clubs and smoking rooms. Chilton Enterprises requested that she take photographs of property in the area that they were considering for their next endeavor. And in exchange, their company would advertise exclusively in the Chronicle.
Wendell Goldberg was forever capitalizing on business opportunities such as these, and she considered it an honor to be personally mentored by the man—even if she didn’t always agree with his tactics or his opinions.
“You best back away a mite, Miz Westbrook.” Josiah’s voice held gentle entreat. “Gonna be hard to help you from all the way over here. You liable to go slammin’ into the mountain ’fore I can get you up.”
She took a small conciliatory step back from the edge. “Satisfied?”
His cheeks puffed. “Ain’t ’bout me bein’ satisfied, ma’am. ’Bout you hirin’ me to see you safe up these mountains and on back down again. I ain’t been knowin’ you but for a week, but you hangin’ off the side of some mountain . . .” He scoffed. “I don’t mean no disrespect, but that don’t bode well for your soundness of mind.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, my state of mind is quite sound. From now on, understanding that we’ll be traveling together”—she attempted a somber tone—“I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t sugarcoat your opinions, Mr. Birch. Speak your mind plainly, if you would. Without fear of offending me.”
He mumbled something she couldn’t make out, but could well imagine, and then took a cross-armed stance that reminded her of a famous Negro orator she’d once heard. “I just tryin’ to do my job, ma’am. Like you hired me to do. That and keep the truth as plainspoken as I can.”
Plain-spoken truth . . . How refreshing that was. And she preferred that too, however abrasive or uncompromising, to the sting of having one thing spoken to her face and another behind her back—an occurrence she hoped she’d left behind her back east. “I think you and I will make a good pair, Josiah.” However an unlikely one.
“I’m inclined to think that way too, Miz Westbrook. Long as you don’t go do somethin’ foolish and end up at the bottom of some mountain.”