Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01]

by From a Distance

  Gagging, coughing, she choked on the liquid now scorching a path through her chest. She spit out the remains and, for a second time, went for the arms restraining her—

  “Elizabeth!”

  At hearing her name, she stilled—winded, wheezing, heart pounding in her ears.

  “The doctor’s trying to help you, and so am I.” Arms held her immovable. “If you still have it in that stubborn mind of yours to go hunting, you’d better hold still and do what he says. You hear me?”

  More obedient to the drawl in his voice than the gruffness of his command, she nodded—gasping, coughing—and pushed a mass of sopping curls from her face. Daniel Ranslett’s grip loosened a fraction, and she felt the sharp rise and fall of his chest against her back, matching her own. It gave comfort.

  The man in front of her, the doctor as Ranslett had referred to him, stepped closer again. “I realize this is easily counseled, miss”—his voice bounced off the cave walls—“and much harder done, but you must try and stay calm. I don’t like being in here either. But please take some breaths, and let’s see if your air passage is responding to the medicine.”

  She tried to swallow past the ache in her throat and told her lungs to fill. And to her surprise, they obeyed. A fraction. A whistling sound accompanied the effort, but at least she was breathing.

  Seconds passed, and the pain moved further into the distance.

  “Have you previously experienced this classification of seizure, Miss Westbrook?”

  From what little she could see of the doctor in the dim light, his formal tone far outweighed the youthfulness in his voice—a requisite of his medical training, perhaps.

  “No. Not this bad.” She swallowed again and cleared her throat. It was so sore. “But I have had them before.”

  “You suffer from a lung affliction.”

  It wasn’t a question. “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “May I?”

  Through the fog, she saw the shadow of his hand before her face but wasn’t entirely sure of his intentions. Yet understanding that he had most likely just saved her life, she nodded. “Certainly.”

  The doctor’s hand disappeared beneath the surface of the water and came to rest over her heart. She didn’t know this man but was familiar enough with examinations by physicians to recognize their routines. The slightest movement in the water sounded overloud in the narrow cavern. She had intended to visit the territory’s hot springs, eventually, only under far different circumstances.

  “How long have you suffered from this affliction?” The doctor moved his hand and gently pressed it against the underside of her throat.

  She felt the faint throb of her pulse against his fingertips. “As far back as I can remember, but it wasn’t until my seventh year—” she stopped for breath—“that I started having seizures. My physicians back east tell me that my lungs are being . . . compromised with each episode.”

  The arms around her waist loosened but didn’t let go.

  “Mm-hmm . . .” The doctor cupped her face and ran his fingers up and down the sides of her throat, then across the base of her neck.

  But it wasn’t the doctor’s touch that captivated her attention.

  Ranslett stood directly behind her, his hands on either side of her waist, his fingers spread over her abdomen. With curiosity, she followed their progress and with every labored breath, she became more aware of him.

  The doctor paused and gave an abrupt laugh. “I’m Dr. Rand Brookston, by the way. We had no opportunity for introductions earlier, Miss Westbrook.” He probed her throat again, but she knew his search would prove vain. He wouldn’t find any lumps or swollen nodules.

  He sighed. “No lumps or swollen nodules. . . . Have either of your parents suffered from this affliction?”

  “Yes, sir.” These were familiar questions. “My mother.”

  “And what is her current state of health?”

  “She . . . died at the age of thirty-three.”

  Dr. Brookston’s hands stilled. “My deepest apologies, Miss Westbrook. Was her passing . . . a result of the ailment?”

  She nodded. “It was.”

  “And may I inquire . . . as to your age?”

  Despite the intimate proximity she and Ranslett shared, Elizabeth didn’t wish to answer the doctor’s question in his company. She cleared her throat again. “I am . . . within two months of the age of my mother when she passed.”

  The hands about her waist tightened ever so slightly.

  “I see.” Dr. Brookston said nothing for a moment, then gave her shoulder a slight squeeze. “Then we will work together to make certain that a similar fate does not befall you.”

  Tears rose to her eyes at his words and as the realization of what had nearly happened to her became more real. She nodded, her voice fragile. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Moments passed as he examined her, checking her pulse, listening to her breathe. Once Dr. Brookston declared her lungs cleared to his satisfaction, he led the way around the corner toward the cave’s entrance.

  Ranslett released her and she followed, trying to match the doctor’s pace in the chest-deep water. Nearly losing her footing, she reached out to steady herself against the rock wall and winced at the ache in her right palm. Then she remembered . . . the gash from the broken glass. Deciding to use her other hand instead, she reached across toward the opposite wall. Almost there . . .

  Her feet went out from under her. About to go under, she managed a quick breath—

  Ranslett grabbed her from behind, so quickly he must have been anticipating it. She spit out the bitter water and tried to find her footing.

  “Having some trouble there?” His deep whisper drew no echo. His hold on her remained steady.

  “I seem to be. . . . Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine.”

  His grip around her rib cage made her breathing more pronounced, but something else felt different about it too. She laid a hand on her abdomen and suddenly realized what it was. Flabbergasted, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed before. She was without her corset! Not the first time she’d lost a corset to one of these attacks, but this time . . .

  She quickly felt for her shirtwaist and discovered it unbuttoned, but her chemise seemed intact. A possible scenario came to mind, and thinking of Ranslett, she hoped the removal of the undergarment had been the doctor’s doing. Entertaining the other possibility sent her imagination reeling.

  Chancing it, she turned. Daniel Ranslett stood close, very close. And when he smiled, she would’ve sworn the water jumped by ten degrees.

  “You all right, ma’am?”

  She blinked. “Yes, I’m fine.” His hair was also wet. She must have given him a run for his money.

  A moment passed.

  “Would you, ahh”—he glanced past her—“like for me to take the lead?”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yes, I think that might be best. Thank you.”

  She waited for him to move, then felt something on her rib cage. What was he doing? A slow smile came. He was drumming his fingers? “Ranslett, I’m fine now. You can lead anytime you’d like.”

  “Well, that’s awful generous of you, ma’am. And I’ll do just that . . . as soon as you get off my toes.”

  “Oh! Sorry!” She stepped away and braced herself against the wall.

  He held out his hand. “I promise not to dunk you . . . intentionally.” “I appreciate that.” With a flourish, she swept back a mass of soaked curls. “I wouldn’t want to get my hair wet.”

  His laughter echoed and she found herself staring up at him. The more she got to know this man, the more different he was from what she had first thought him to be.

  He climbed out and reached back to assist her up the rocks. The weight of her sodden skirt made maneuvering more difficult, but she managed not to slip again.

  Conversation floated toward them, and she gathered that a crowd was waiting beyond the stand of trees. Clear of the
cave’s warmth, the air took on a chill, and she peered down at her clothing, shivering. The wet shirtwaist hung open and the thin chemise clung to her curves.

  Feeling Daniel’s attention, she turned away and slipped the buttons through the holes, then crossed her arms over her chest for modesty’s sake.

  “Here . . .”

  She looked over her shoulder to see him taking off his shirt. “It’s wet, but it’s thick. I’ve got a coat out there you can borrow, but . . . you probably need a little something more before we get to it.”

  She nodded, self-conscious, but only a little. He was acting as though the situation wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, which made her feel more at ease. She slipped her arms into his shirt and pulled it together in the front. “Thank you, Ranslett.”

  He lifted a damp curl from her shoulder and rubbed it between his fingers. “You’re welcome, Elizabeth.”

  It was the second time he’d used her Christian name, and she liked it. She also liked what he looked like without his shirt. But just as he hadn’t stared at her—much—she forced her gaze upward and followed him beyond the shelter of the fir trees.

  A fading April sun sat wedged between the Maroon Bells, their highest peaks towering over Timber Ridge. A chilling wind swept down from the north, quaking the newly budded aspen and reminding her of how quickly the weather could change in the mountains.

  Several people stood waiting, among them a man Elizabeth assumed to be the doctor, since he was the only other person soaked to the bone. Dr. Brookston was indeed young looking, perhaps a few years her junior, and handsome, in a dashing sort of way.

  Daniel’s beagle ran to greet his master, and the first pair of eyes Elizabeth connected with were Josiah’s.

  With a broad smile, Josiah ducked his head as he approached. The front of his shirttail was stained with her blood. “You done gave us a scare, Miz Westbrook. You doin’ all right now?”

  She smiled up at him, her emotions raw when remembering what they’d discovered in her room at the boardinghouse. “I am. Thank you, Josiah, for all you did.”

  He waved away her thanks. “I jus’ carried you to the doc’s. It was him and Mr. Ranslett here”—something flickered in Josiah’s eyes before he glanced down at Ranslett, who was slipping on his boots—“who knew what to do and gots you over here.”

  “Miss Westbrook . . .” Sheriff McPherson tipped his hat. “It’s nice to see color in your complexion again, ma’am. I hear pale skin is all the rage back east, but the pallor of your face when Ranslett carried you in there . . .” He shook his head.

  Ranslett stood and gave a casual nod, but she sensed something more intimate in his gaze. “That was a mite too high fashion for my taste too, ma’am. If you don’t mind me saying.”

  “For mine too, I would imagine.” Elizabeth felt a lick on her hand and reached down to rub Beau’s head. “I’m most grateful to you, Dr. Brookston, for your quick action. And to you too, Mr. Ranslett, for your . . . thoughtful assistance.”

  Dr. Brookston gave a gentlemanly tip of his head, while Ranslett merely shrugged.

  “It was nothing, ma’am.” A wry smile tipped Ranslett’s mouth. “Once the doc went inside, Sheriff and I just drew straws.” A glint deepened his green eyes. “Mine came up short.”

  Everyone laughed. Everyone but Sheriff McPherson.

  “Ranslett’s being far too modest—while also seeking, I’m sure, to protect my . . . fragile reputation. You see, ma’am, I . . . ah . . .” McPherson toed the dirt with his boot. “I can’t swim. Tried to learn when I was younger. My best friend growing up tried his best to teach me, but . . .” McPherson shook his head, glancing at Ranslett. “Water and me don’t get along real well. Never have.”

  “Well, after all these years, that finally explains the smell around here,” a man said from the back.

  “Watch it there, Lewis.” Sheriff McPherson’s tone became worthy of his office. “I’ve got three empty cells around the corner. I might have to haul you in for disturbing the peace.”

  That drew more laughter, and slowly the crowd began to disperse.

  But the comment from the gentleman made Elizabeth self-conscious about the smell on her clothes, and on her skin. The sulfur water had a distinct and . . . none too pleasant odor.

  Black leather bag in hand, Dr. Brookston bowed slightly at the waist, his black hair plastered against his head. “I’ll also take my leave, Miss Westbrook. But I’d like to examine you in my office . . . after you’ve changed into some dry clothes and had a chance to eat something.” He gently took her hand and turned it over. The gash appeared puffy and red but thoroughly cleansed. And had stopped bleeding, for the time being. “We must have lost the bandage in the hot springs. This will need a few stitches, but we’ll see to that when you come.”

  She rubbed her arms, grateful for Ranslett’s shirt. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be over shortly.”

  The setting sun illuminated a dark bank of grayish-purple clouds in the west. Perhaps Ranslett was right about the snow after all.

  A coat came about her shoulders. Ranslett tucked it close beneath her chin. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and pick it up.”

  Smiling her appreciation, she pulled the lapels closer and caught a whiff of seasoned leather and of something spicy, a decidedly male scent. Fresh scratches on his arms drew her attention, and stirred the vaguest recollection.

  Sheriff McPherson followed her gaze to the marks. “Looks like Miss Westbrook put up a fair fight in there, Ranslett.”

  She winced. “Did I do that to you?”

  “It’s nothing that won’t heal. I’m fine.” He shot a weak grin at the sheriff. “She’s stronger than she looks—that’s for sure. And that’s meant as a compliment, ma’am.”

  McPherson scoffed. “If that’s your idea of a compliment, Ranslett, you need help in that area.”

  Listening to their banter, Elizabeth got the feeling she’d under- estimated their connection. “My apologies, Ranslett. But when I can’t breathe, I tend to get a little . . . worked up.”

  “If what happened back inside there was you being ‘a little worked up,’ then I’m not sure I want to be around when you’re really riled.”

  She laughed, aware of how Ranslett’s gaze swept her, from head to toe, in none-too-hasty a fashion, before settling again on her eyes. He had a way of smiling that made her wish she knew his thoughts, while also making her think she might blush blood red if she did. Something about the man fanned a flame inside her. How often had she prided herself on not being the swooning type? But apparently a tiny part of her still knew what it felt like to melt over a man. Thankfully, it wasn’t a part that showed.

  “Miss Westbrook . . .” The sheriff ’s tone had shed its humor. “I’d like to accompany you back to the boardinghouse to see your room. I sent word to Miss Ruby and asked her to leave things exactly as they were until I could take a look.”

  “Yes, Sheriff, of course. I’d appreciate your doing that.”

  “I think I’ll take my leave, ma’am.” Ranslett tipped his hat. “Dry clothes sound pretty good about now.”

  “Mr. Ranslett, sir.” Josiah stepped up, having been unusually quiet. “I tied your horse up behind the doctor’s for safekeepin’. ”

  Ranslett eyed him. “I appreciate you thinking to do that. Thank you . . . Josiah.”

  Elizabeth looked between the two men, wondering if Josiah sensed what a step that was for Ranslett. Somehow she thought he did.

  She and McPherson walked back to the boardinghouse, Josiah following them. As they rounded a corner, a chilling wind hit her full in the face and she shivered. Thoughts of what awaited at the boardinghouse brought a host of emotions to the forefront. Not the least of which were disappointment and anger. Who would have done this? And why?

  “This may sound strange, ma’am, especially since you’re newly arrived to Timber Ridge, but . . .” The sheriff assisted her up the stairs to the boardwalk. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do thi
s to you? Or why?”

  Her laugh was without humor. “That’s just what I was wondering.” Faces of people she’d met since coming to Timber Ridge flitted through her mind. And one by one she dismissed them all. If they were back in Washington, she could think of a couple of people who might feel strongly enough against her and her association with E.G. Brenton, but that was a world away. And even then, she was only Brenton’s assistant in their eyes. “Everyone I’ve met here has been so kind and welcoming. I don’t think I’ve been here long enough to make any enemies.”

  “Don’t necessarily think of whoever did this as being an enemy, ma’am. Chances are pretty good you’ve met the person, that you’ve spoken with them in Mullins’s store or here on the boardwalk. Think of it in terms of anyone who might have wanted something from you. Or who was looking for something. Did you notice anything personal missing when you first saw your room?”

  She bit back an unexpected retort. Why was it people never understood how personal her equipment was to her? How much of her was wrapped up in it? Aware that McPherson had intended no offense, she let it pass.

  “Everything was in chaos, Sheriff, as you’ll soon see. I didn’t have time to determine if anything was taken, but I’ll look through the chifforobe to be sure. That’s where I keep my money, my clothes, and what jewelry I have.”

  Reality quickly set in—regardless of the answers to the who and why, she had no equipment left. It would take a month or more for glass plates and chemicals to be ordered from back east and to arrive in Denver. A new camera would have to come from the American Optical Company in New York City and would be a special order. And very expensive. She had saved for months to pay for that camera. Having one had been a prerequisite to her being considered for this new position at the Chronicle.

  Considering her remaining funds, the likelihood of meeting her deadlines—much less pursuing her dreams—was quickly fading. She had a better chance of winning a footrace across the Rockies than being named the Chronicle’s next journalist photographer.

  Hearing the thread of her own thoughts, Elizabeth suddenly felt selfish and petty. Here she was, alive and breathing, when by all accounts she shouldn’t have been. She had much to be thankful for yet couldn’t dismiss the underlying feeling of loss.