Her thoughts drifted across Coulter’s property line, to Daniel Ranslett’s land. Or rightly, to Daniel Ranslett. She had a feeling that no matter what amount Chilton Enterprises offered him, he wouldn’t sell his land.
She arched her shoulders and rubbed her lower back, rolling her neck from side to side. In the end, getting the landowner to sell wasn’t her problem. She was just supposed to give Goldberg the names, which she would provide in a letter to him tonight.
Her gaze was drawn again to the photograph, and the confrontation Josiah had described played again in her mind. She sat down at the desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped her quill, then wrote the story as she remembered him telling it. She included a summary at the end about how a person reaped what they sowed and then finished with a mention of Josiah Birch, a man of courage and valor in the Colorado Rockies. Thinking that a good title, she added it at the top.
She scanned the four written pages. Not her best, but it was good. It would grab readers’ attention too, especially the men, which is what Mr. Goldberg wanted. She signed her pen name at the bottom—E.G. Brenton—wishing she were signing her real name instead. In time . . .
After changing into her nightgown, she crawled into bed and blew out the chipped oil lamp on her nightstand. The sheets were cool against her bare legs and brought a chill. Shivering, she pulled down her gown from where it bunched around her hips, then reached for the blanket and tucked it snug beneath her chin.
It wasn’t until minutes later, when she’d finally gotten warm, that she thought of Josiah. She rose on one elbow. Her gaze swung to the window. She’d never asked him where he lived or where he stayed at night. She pushed back the covers and padded across the bare floor to the window to see if it was still snowing. A deeper chill worked its way up her legs.
Hugging her midsection, she moved the curtain to one side and peered through a dirt-streaked pane. Pale moonlight mingled with the snow to outline the buildings and homes in burnished silver shadows. Her window overlooked the town, and the view was as she’d expected—desolate, ghostly white. Ranslett had described a similar scene so beautifully the other day, when everything was covered in frost and snow. Warmth from her breath fogged the glass pane, and her concern deepened as she imagined Josiah out there somewhere in the night.
She hoped he was someplace warm and dry. She’d paid him two weeks’ salary in advance, so he wasn’t without funds, which made her wonder again about his shoes.
Icy cold slipped through unseen cracks in the walls and floorboards, hastening her longing for her bed. As she turned to go she saw something move in the street down below. In the shadows.
She leaned close to the window, squinting. Waiting . . .
Perhaps she’d only imagin—
No, there it was again. Someone standing just inside the alleyway, on the opposite side of the street. Flakes of snow smudged the opposite side of the pane, and she tried to rub away the condensation with the ball of her fist.
Someone stepped from the shadows—a man, if the long duster and Stetson were any indication. He looked up one side of the street and down the other. Then just stood there.
She watched, curious. Why would someone be standing outside on a—
She pushed back from the window, heart in her throat. Whoever was down there had looked straight up at her window.
She consciously unclenched her jaw, waiting. The curtain swayed, betraying her presence, before falling back into place. There was no way he could see into a third-story room, but still she felt exposed.
She stared at the window, her mind racing. It was dark outside. The likelihood he’d seen her was slim. She could hardly see through the dirty panes herself. Still, she felt as though she’d been caught spying.
Seconds ticked past and she couldn’t help herself. She moved closer again and leaned to one side. Careful not to disturb the draperies this time, she peered through a narrow slit in the fabric and watched the alleyway below, searching the shadows as best she could.
No one. Whoever had been there was gone.
Feeling suddenly brave in her sheltered tower, she nudged the curtain aside, and for the briefest second she expected to see the man standing below again, staring up at her like some seedy villain in a stagecoach novel. A shiver skittered up and down her arms, and she nearly laughed out loud at her own silliness.
She tried to see if she could make out the sheriff ’s office, but she couldn’t. She could, however, see Mattie’s Porch, the restaurant where she’d eaten yesterday—and that’s when she spotted him again. Or she thought it was him.
A ways down the street, in a wagon, his shoulders hunched forward.
She pressed closer to the window. There was something in the wagon bed. A bundle of some sort . . . She couldn’t make it out.
Her breath fogged the window again, and she impatiently swiped at the patch of moisture. She barely made out the outline of the wagon before the snow and the night swallowed it whole.
18
Morning couldn’t come soon enough. Images of the stranger below Elizabeth’s window last night kept blurring with those of the missing body and made for outlandish dreams, keeping sleep at a distance.
Eager to speak with Sheriff McPherson, she threw back the covers and shuffled from bed. Intermittent sips of tea sated her appetite as she hurried through her routine, and she was surprised when she went to pour another cup only to find the teapot bone dry. She must have been drinking more than she’d thought. No matter, she breathed in and out. Her lungs were clear and she felt surprisingly refreshed. If the sheriff wasn’t an early riser, she was going to beat him to his office.
Some faithful soul had swept the boardwalks clear of last night’s snow, but the frozen planks were still slick in spots. Her heeled boots didn’t offer the best traction, so she stepped down to the street cautiously, gripping the railing, careful to hold on to the envelope she was mailing to Goldberg. Her breath shown in crisp puffs, and though the mud beneath her boots was frozen, she could well imagine what a horrendous mess it would be when the temperatures warmed.
The stage was pulling up in front of the store when she rounded the corner. Her timing could not have been better. She raced inside the store and paid the clerk at the mail counter, then handed the coachman her envelope. It felt good knowing that the photograph—as she’d come to think of it—along with the one of the meadow, and another article were out of her hands and on their way to Washington.
The townspeople of Timber Ridge were out early this morning. Especially the male population. At the far end of the street, a crowd of men gathered outside a building. Their murmured conversation drifted toward her, and several of them were shaking their heads. Her curiosity piqued, she decided to take that street to the sheriff ’s office in hopes of learning what the gathering was about.
She spotted Josiah standing on the outskirts. He saw her at the same time and met her halfway.
He looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept well. “Mornin’, Miz Westbrook. Word is, they come upon a body, ma’am. Only—” He glanced around, his deep voice anxious. “They come upon it somewhere here in town.”
“Is it the same man?”
“I ain’t seen him. Undertaker done had him inside when I got here.”
“Have they given his name?”
“No, ma’am. But you and me got no idea what that man’s name was anyhow.”
She nodded, thinking. “Have you spoken to the sheriff yet?”
Josiah gave her a look. “Like I’s just gonna walk right up to him and tell him I found me a dead white man?”
She took issue with his tone. “I was just asking if you had spoken with him yet, Josiah.”
He gave a sharp sigh. “You a smart lady, ma’am, but you got a lot to learn ’bout how things work out here. Man like me don’t bring up findin’ no dead bodies to white men.” He glanced around again and lowered his voice. “ ’Specially when it’s one of their own. I be findin’ a noose round my neck real q
uick-like.”
Her thoughts jumped to what McPherson had told her happened in town years earlier, and it gave credence to Josiah’s concern. “We found the body together. I’ll speak on your behalf, if need be. I’ll be your witness should any questions arise.”
“I don’t mean no disrespect, Miz Westbrook, but that gives me little means of comfort, ma’am. Not when you seen what I seen. I laid awake last night thinkin’ on it. We got to tell him, I know that. It’s the right thing to do, but it bein’ the right thing don’t mean I got to like doin’ it.”
She couldn’t argue that point, and didn’t try. He was right. Josiah had witnessed things, experienced things, that she’d only read about in her support of the abolitionist movement. As she’d been reading about it, he’d been living it.
“You’re right, Josiah, of course. I’ll tell him, and I’ll be very careful in how I reveal the information to him.”
Sheriff McPherson stepped from the building onto the boardwalk and the crowd’s murmur fell away. She moved closer in order to hear. Josiah hung back a ways, then eventually followed. Behind the sheriff came another man, shorter and hunched. Whether by time or by nature wasn’t certain, and he shuffled along more than walked.
McPherson stood at the edge of the boardwalk. “I appreciate your patience as we’ve begun investigating a discovery that was made early this morning.”
The hunched man stepped forward and whispered something in the sheriff ’s ear.
McPherson nodded. “As most of you probably know by now, a body was found at daybreak this morning. It’s that of Travis Coulter.”
The reaction from the crowd was subdued. Elizabeth sensed Josiah’s shudder beside her and felt one pass through her too. But just because it was the same man they’d gone to see yesterday didn’t mean it was the same body, and it didn’t implicate Josiah in any way.
But the coincidence was unnerving. . . .
“After Mr. Carnes’s initial examination of the body”—Sheriff McPherson gestured to the hunched man beside him—“he’s placing Coulter’s time of death within the last twenty-four hours. We’ve already sent a telegram to Denver asking for record of next of kin. If any of you know whether Coulter had any living relatives, I’d appreciate you getting with us on that.” More questions were volleyed, and he raised his hands, waiting for silence. “Coulter’s body was found behind the saloon.”
A man close to Elizabeth laughed. “That ain’t surprising, now, is it?”
“Mr. Carnes needs more time to examine the body before ruling on the cause of death, so we’ll release that information when we have it. There’ll be an investigation and I fully expect everyone in town to allow that investigation to be conducted without any outside interference. If anyone does choose to interfere—”
He scanned the faces as though trying to memorize them, and as Elizabeth watched him, the image of six crosses, arranged in a semicircle, from largest to smallest, rose in her mind. McPherson had to be thinking of that incident right now. How could he not? Surely others in this crowd had been in Timber Ridge long enough to recall it too.
“—then that person will be obstructing justice, and they’ll be dealt with in the strictest sense of the law. If you know anything about what might have happened to Coulter, whether you think it’s significant or not, I ask you to come and speak with me now. Thank you.” He stepped from the boardwalk and was immediately engulfed by the crowd.
Elizabeth didn’t say anything for a minute, aware of Josiah’s reticence. “We have to find out if it’s the same man.”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.”
“But we might as well wait here for a minute, until the sheriff is free.”
Josiah nodded.
Her attention drifted, then eventually made its way back to McPherson. Just above him on the boardwalk, Mr. Carnes stood scanning the street as though searching for someone. The coroner stopped and scrunched his face, looking in the vicinity of where she and Josiah stood. Purpose flooded his expression.
Elizabeth glanced behind her to see what had drawn his attention, but no one was there. When she turned back, the man was on a path straight for her and Josiah, shuffling at a surprising speed.
She discreetly touched Josiah’s arm, and it didn’t take him long to follow her meaning.
“Oh . . . this ain’t good, Miz Westbrook. This ain’t good at all.”
“Neither of us has done anything wrong, Josiah,” she whispered, still watching Mr. Carnes. “Remember that.”
“Miss Westbrook?” The coroner’s voice sounded exactly as she would have expected—rusted, like an old hinge that needed a good oiling. Out of breath, he removed his hat and quickly glanced behind him in McPherson’s direction. “You’re the . . . woman photographer from . . . back east. Is that right?”
“Yes, Mr. Carnes, I am. How do you do?” She debated on whether or not to extend her hand in greeting, but then remembered McPherson’s reference to the man examining the body and refrained. He had a peculiar smell about him. At first she thought it was a poor choice of cologne; on second whiff she cringed. It was formaldehyde.
Carnes smiled, and though it was a friendly gesture, it wasn’t an altogether pleasant addition to his face. “I’m doing a whole lot better than the man back in my office—that’s for sure. Listen, ma’am, I’m wondering if you could do the town of Timber Ridge a great service.” His eyes were large and wide set, and one of them had a tendency to wander as he spoke. “Due to the circumstances of this case, I think it’s imperative that a photograph be—”
“Carnes!” McPherson stared from across the street. He spoke briefly to the men encircling him, then started toward them.
“As I was saying, ma’am”—Mr. Carnes spoke in haste—“I think it’s imperative that we have a photograph of the deceased for our case files. I wouldn’t ordinarily ask this of you, dear lady, but the circumstances merit the request, and I—”
“Miss Westbrook, Mr. Birch, how are you this morning?”
Seeing McPherson’s scowl, Elizabeth felt renewed respect for the authority he commanded both personally and as sheriff of this town. She also experienced a touch of apprehension for Mr. Carnes, and was glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of the dark look.
Sensing the sheriff ’s greeting was more of a formality, she answered with a nod, and Josiah did likewise.
“Carnes, I advised you against doing this.”
“But you did not forbid it, Sheriff. And I still hold that having a photograph of the deceased will prove beneficial in this case.” He worried the frayed rim of his hat. “We’ve never had a photographer in Timber Ridge, and coroners back east routinely have their corpses—”
“This is not up for debate.” McPherson turned to her. “My sincere apologies, Miss Westbrook. This isn’t an appropriate conversation to be having in your presence, ma’am. And even less appropriate is what’s being requested of you.” His look silenced a fidgeting Mr. Carnes.
The coroner’s mouth tightened into a thin line.
Josiah shifted his weight, and maybe it was her imagination, but Elizabeth felt his silent censure regarding the photograph she’d taken yesterday—as though she didn’t already feel judged enough by McPherson’s strong opinion on the subject. Thoughts ricocheted off one another. She needed to tell the sheriff about yesterday’s discovery, but she wasn’t about to have that conversation in front of Mr. Carnes.
She chose her words carefully. “I appreciate your concern, Sheriff. However, though capturing such photographs, as Mr. Carnes has suggested, doesn’t fall within my usual practice”—from the corner of her eye she saw Josiah look at her, and her face heated—“I believe I could . . . tolerate doing this for you. For the overall good of the investigation.” She purposefully did not look at Josiah. “But only with your permission, of course.”
McPherson seemed to weigh her offer. He looked at Carnes, then at her. “May I speak with you privately, Miss Westbrook?”
She attempted to trace his footsteps
in the snow but had to throw in an extra one every few steps. Grateful for the opportunity to finally speak with him in private, she hoped she hadn’t overstepped her bounds in making the offer.
He led her to the end of the boardwalk and assisted her up the stairs. “I’m sorry you’ve been put in this situation, ma’am, and I appreciate what you’re offering to do. But I fear that seeing this body will be upsetting to you. And I don’t want to—”
“Sheriff, excuse me for interrupting, but . . . there’s something you need to know. It may help in some regard.”
He studied her for a moment, and she was struck by how gentle a man he seemed, and how handsome. Now, how to say what she needed to say to him with him staring at her in such a way. “Yesterday morning, we were near the Maroon Bells when—”
“We?”
“Yes, Josiah Birch was with me.”
He briefly looked beyond her, then nodded.
“We were near the Maroon Bells when we found a man’s body, on the trail.”
McPherson showed no reaction whatsoever, which threw her, but only for a second. “Neither Josiah nor I knew his name or who he was. Josiah was going to carry him back to town, but when we came back a while later, the body was gone.” Part of her last sentence replayed in her mind—when we came back a while later. That they’d left the body there sounded cold and without feeling, and she rushed to cover the awkwardness of it. “When we got back into town, we went straight to your office to notify you. But it was closed and no one was there. Since it was late and it was snowing . . . and quite honestly since the man was already dead, we decided to seek you out first thing this morning to tell you.”
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