The conversation wasn’t going as planned. Best to deal with Daniel Ranslett head-on. “I’ve asked you a question, Mr. Ranslett, and I’m still waiting for an answer.”
He walked to where she stood. “My answer was no.” Tugging on the leather strap, he took his time stepping back.
Elizabeth squinted. “Why are you saying no?”
“Because I’m refusing your proposal.”
The vein in her forehead started to throb. It was a telling sign, and always had been. Her father still kidded her about it. Whenever she got angry a tiny vein, normally not noticeable, popped out. That it wasn’t the most attractive thing didn’t bother her; she had other shortcomings far worse. What she found so frustrating was that it so clearly announced her displeasure. People always knew when she was truly mad. Like now. And the look Ranslett was giving her wasn’t helping.
His gaze slowly drifted upward.
She clenched her teeth, summoning patience. “I realize you’re refusing. What I’m asking for is an explanation as to why.”
“I believe you’re a mite angry, ma’am.”
Throb, throb, throb. “I’m a mite upset, yes. And I’d still like to know why you’re refusing.”
He shrugged. “Mainly . . . because I don’t want to.” He walked to the back of the wagon, leaving her staring after him.
13
Her vein was going to explode.
Right in the middle of the road in this tiny, one-horse, dot-on-the-map town out in the middle of nowhere Colorado Territory, where—Elizabeth stopped and took a deep breath, and remembered why she was here and what she stood to gain, and she slowly exhaled. Right in the middle of the Colorado Territory, where the breathtaking landscapes and gorgeous vistas were going to earn her the job she’d always dreamed of having. Of being a staff photographer and “recognized” journalist with the Washington Daily Chronicle.
A sudden calm flowed through her again.
Daniel Ranslett knew how to communicate; he’d already demonstrated that. He was just being difficult, and was enjoying every blasted minute of it.
“Fine.” She walked to the wagon and retrieved her pack. “You don’t want the job. I’ll find someone else.”
“Best of luck to you, ma’am.” He tipped his hat in a kindly manner and whistled for Beau, who was sitting with Josiah on the boardwalk.
Infuriating, the way he acted like a Southern gentleman while basically telling her to take a hike. “You’re right, you know.” She waited for his head to come up. “What you said before . . . out at the Tuckers’. But women aren’t the only ones who have hidden daggers, Ranslett.”
That seemed to bring him up short. He looked away for a second, then sighed. He came alongside her. “I’m sorry, Miss Westbrook. My mind’s just occupied with other things right now. What I’m trying to say is that it’s different out here. I’ve traveled these territories, and a person doesn’t tell these mountains anything. Not when you’re going to leave, not when you’ve got to get back. With all due respect . . .” He paused, and she sensed his genuine concern. “The mountains tell you. I’ve seen plenty of men try to dictate how it’s going to be, and they paid for that mistake with their lives. And those of their families. So just be careful what you’re aiming to do, and when.” Taking the reins, he guided his horse free from the wagon and tethered it to the post.
Still too angry to be overly sentimental at what he’d said, she was practical enough to have heard him. “If something happened and it wasn’t safe to travel, then I wouldn’t go. I would wait, most certainly, and I would trust my guide’s lead.” Maybe that last bit would help persuade him, but his stance indicated that was doubtful. “From all accounts I’ve read, they say that traveling in the Rockies during the months of May through September are the most pleasant and beautiful.” Memory had kicked in and she’d quoted that last line from an article she’d read. And it came out sounding rehearsed, even to her.
A smirk tipped his mouth. “And have they—whoever they are—traveled these mountains before?”
She could only remember bits and pieces from the account but was relatively certain it had been a verified source. “Of course they have.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. He stretched his shoulders and winced slightly. “I’m not going to argue with you, Miss Westbrook. And my answer stands.” He turned to go, then stopped. “But I will disagree with them on the months. Those months are pretty, but the most beautiful time is the dead of winter, when the world turns white and everything goes frozen. The trees, the rocks, the river, the peaks, everything. Even your breath comes out white, and crystals form on your lips. The air is so cold you’d swear your lungs are on fire, and there’s not a soul to be found for miles, just you . . . and the land . . . and the quiet.”
His voice had gone hushed, making the mental picture he’d created within her even more powerful.
“I wish I were going to be here then, so I could see that.”
He laughed softly. “So you could capture it with that camera of yours?”
She felt an affront. “So I could appreciate its beauty.”
He nodded but didn’t speak for a moment. “It changes you . . . once you’ve seen this land. Really seen it. You’re different inside. I wish more people understood that—maybe then they’d be more careful with things.” He stepped up onto the boardwalk.
She wanted to continue their conversation, but apparently he was through.
He stood inside the entry to the butcher’s shop. “How about next Friday. For hunting?”
She didn’t have to think long. “That will work nicely, thank you.”
“I’ll draw a map for you”—he indicated the boardinghouse with a nod—“and give it to Miss Ruby before I leave town.”
“Leave?”
“I live a ways from here.”
“Let me guess. In the mountains, all alone, by yourself. With your dog.”
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Something like that. The best hunting I’ve found is on a ridge not far from my cabin. That’ll be our best bet.”
“If that’s our best bet, why didn’t you take me there to begin with?”
He glanced down the street, then slowly back. “To be honest, I wasn’t properly motivated before now.”
“And what was it that I said that changed your motivation?”
His smile faded. “Nothing you said, ma’am. Nothing from you at all, actually.”
Again feeling gently put in her place, she stared. She knew deep down that no matter what else Daniel Ranslett might be—and certainly it couldn’t all be good—he was an honest man at his core. “Well, whatever changed your mind, I’ll look forward to seeing where you live.”
He gave a short laugh. “Sorry again, ma’am, but you won’t be seeing that.”
“Don’t tell me . . . you don’t like people knowing where you live?”
“Don’t take it personally. I just like my privacy.”
“Some people might call that eccentric.” She decided to have a little fun with him. “I’m sorry . . . do you know what that means?”
“Nope, but if you insist on telling me, the map I leave might have you ending up in Wyoming.”
She laughed. “Then I’ll try to refrain.”
“You’ll be bringing your man with you, right?”
Realizing who he was talking about, she glanced behind her at Josiah across the street. “Your man.” She hadn’t heard that phrase used in a while. And from Ranslett’s expression, he was wishing he could take it back. Seeing that gave her another glimpse into who he was, or at least into who he’d once been. “Josiah will be accompanying me, yes. He’s currently in my employ.”
“Good. That’ll work fine.”
She peered at him. “Are you thinking I wouldn’t be able to find my way without help?” She would never admit it to him, but a good sense of direction was something she’d never had. She could read a map well enough, but she wasn’t one of those people who instinctively knew which way was nort
h. Her father was. He’d once told her that even in the heat of battle, when the smoke was so thick he couldn’t see but a few feet in front of him, he always knew his way. In a revealing moment in later years, moments that didn’t happen often between them, he’d confessed that he thought God had given him that gift so that he could lead men into war. So that his men would be confident in following him.
Elizabeth hadn’t said anything then, but she still doubted whether war was God’s reason for giving her father that ability. Giving gifts so that men could better kill one another didn’t line up with what she knew of the Almighty. Surely when God imparted those gifts, entrusting those small pieces of himself to people, He did it with greater expectation than that.
“You credit me with thinking too deeply, Miss Westbrook. My thought was that it would be good to have someone with you for safety’s sake. These mountains can be harsh, and with very little warning. Good day, ma’am.”
“Good day. And, Ranslett . . .”
He turned.
She gave a half nod, unable to resist. “In case Josiah and I happen by your cabin early on Friday morning, I take my coffee with milk, and no sugar.” She smiled and turned on her heel.
She could tell by the look on Sheriff McPherson’s face that he was surprised to see her. “Good morning, Sheriff. I hope I’m not bothering you. I know it’s early for a Monday morning.” She pushed the office door closed.
He rose from his desk, chewing and wiping his mouth. He swallowed. “Good morning, Miss Westbrook. And it’s not too early at all.” He rushed to her side of the desk and gathered a pile of papers and books from a chair. “Here, have a seat. Pardon the conditions—we don’t get many women in through here. My sister’s about the only woman who ever visits, or used to. She hasn’t been in for a while.” He stacked an empty tin with others on a table behind him and brushed what looked to be remnants of breakfast—or perhaps several meals—onto the floor.
“Thank you.” She curbed a grin at his attempt at cleanliness, then glimpsed something smeared on the chair just before she sat down. She quickly caught herself and stood again.
Seeing it, he shook his head. “Why don’t we go for a walk? That might be safer.”
She let him lead the way. They turned right as they departed the office, then left at the next street.
“How are you adjusting to life in Timber Ridge, ma’am?”
“Quite well. I love your town and your people. Everyone here is so kind, and your mountains . . .” The Maroon Bells reigned above, etched steely and white against the brilliant blue. “My camera doesn’t rightly capture their beauty.”
“They are pretty, especially with the snow on them.” They walked in silence for a few paces, and then he looked over at her. “But I’m thinking you didn’t come to talk to me about the mountains.” He smiled.
“You’re right, I’m actually here seeking your advice on something. I’m planning an expedition to the cliff dwellings south of here that were recently discovered.”
“For that hobby of yours?”
McPherson tipped his hat to a woman passing by. Elizabeth hoped the woman wasn’t married—not with the look she’d just tossed in the sheriff ’s direction. Yet the man seemed totally unaware of it.
“Yes . . . for my hobby.” Feeling a prick of guilt at the lie, she consoled herself with the fact that it had been a hobby for years. “And I’m in need of a guide for that journey.”
“I’ve got just the man for you and you’ve already met him—Daniel Ranslett. Ranslett can track anything or anyone, even through water.” His grin said he was kidding, but there was also a seriousness to it. “And he knows these mountains better than anyone else. I’d be willing to speak to him for you, if you’d like.”
“Actually, I’ve already spoken to Mr. Ranslett about the opportunity, and he turned me down. Quite soundly, in fact.”
McPherson laughed. “That sounds like Ranslett. He can be a hard sell at times.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“But he’s always honest. You never have to guess where he stands on something.”
They took the path that circled Maroon Lake, where she and Josiah had taken photographs last week. The water was still frozen in patches and lapped at the mud bordering the banks.
“How did the two of you meet, ma’am? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Not at all.” She briefly told him of her and Ranslett’s first encounter, and McPherson’s laughter caused her to embellish a few of the details for humor’s sake. “When I put to him that I wanted another day of hunting to replace the elk he cost me, I didn’t really think he would agree, but he did.”
“Consider yourself lucky, Miss Westbrook. Ranslett’s not one to agree to such things. It’s not that he’s unsociable. He’s just . . . taken to enjoying his privacy more in recent years.”
“Am I right in guessing that you’ve known each other for a time, Sheriff?”
He didn’t answer, and she wondered if she’d overstepped her bounds.
He finally nodded. “Ranslett and I go back a ways, yes, ma’am. He’s a good man. And again, you won’t find a better tracker or hunter in all the Rockies.”
“That may be the case, but he’s made it clear he has no interest in guiding me to the cliff dwellings. When I first arrived, I posted an advertisement at the general store and learned just this morning that one gentleman has responded—a Mr. Hawthorne. He left word that he’s available to meet with me this afternoon. I was wondering if you would be willing to look at his letters of reference—or speak for his character, if you know him.”
“Can’t say that I do know him, but I’d be happy to look at his references for you. You want to be able to trust whomever you hire.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
They rounded the lake and took the path leading back to town. “You know what’s brought me west, Sheriff. But what about you? What drew you from your . . . obvious Southern roots?”
He smiled. “It was a lot of things, I guess. Mainly, though, life was different after the war. Houses were still standing, but homes were gone, families torn apart. And in a way it was too sad to stay there and face it every day. So I came west, not planning on staying here, mind you. Just wanted to see what everyone was talking about.”
“And what took you from that to being sheriff of Timber Ridge? That’s quite a leap.”
“Something happened not long after I arrived here, Miss Westbrook. Something that . . . changed my view on life, you might say. I know this town may look rough to you, ma’am, having come from such a big city, but when I first got here there was no law at all. Not in a person or an office anyway. Every man just pretty much called things how he saw it. If there was a dispute, it was settled between the two having it. Sometimes more civilly than others.” His eyes narrowed. “We had a killing . . . of a white man who was well liked in town. He’d been outspoken against the Negroes coming into Timber Ridge, about them taking up residence alongside the whites. You know what I’m talking about. . . . When his body was found outside of town, there was an uprising.
“White people demanded justice, and before anything could be settled, some of the men saw justice meted out—their own way. They accused a Negro man of the murder, and they hung him. . . .” A shadow encompassed his face. “Along with his wife and four children. I wasn’t in town at the time, but I was told they hung the children first, starting with the youngest. Then his wife, and then him.”
Elizabeth saw in the sheriff ’s face what could only be described as the rawest of pains. A question burned inside her, one she already knew the answer to. She swallowed to ensure she could speak. “The man was innocent . . . wasn’t he?”
McPherson looked down for a moment, as though not wanting to answer. “He was. But things happened so fast, and those few who knew he didn’t do it were too afraid to say anything. And even if he had done it . . . they killed his family!” He paused on the trail and nodded toward a stand of trees, j
ust off the lake.
Elizabeth stilled beside him, not seeing anything at first, then . . . A sadness settled deep inside her. Crosses, six in all, arranged in a semicircle from largest to smallest, in a tiny cove of pine.
“Ben Mullins, who owns the general store, he and I buried them. Shortly after that I put my name forward for sheriff. And I’ve been here ever since.”
She slowly exhaled, not having to wonder whether she would remember that story well enough to write it down later. She felt it burning in her down deep, and knew that E.G. Brenton’s readers would too.
14
Later that afternoon Elizabeth took her place behind a line four patrons deep at the counter of the land and title office. She wondered if standing in line was necessary in order to speak with the manager, a Mr. Zachary, but with only the busy clerk behind the counter to ask, she chose to wait. Apparently everyone in town bought land on Monday.
She used the time to read the different advertisements on the bulletin board to her right, amused at the misspellings or poor wording on many of them. As Wendell Goldberg espoused daily without fail, “No word should be uttered, much less written, without benefit of an editor.” No one would ever accuse the man of being humble.
She paid special notice to the posts advertising land for sale. The Chronicle’s investors had proposed specific requirements regarding the plots of land they wanted, and land suitable to construct a hotel with access to hot springs was primary. None of these notices described the various plots as having access to hot springs, but that didn’t mean—
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