They arrived at the boardinghouse, and McPherson held open the door. “Mr. Birch, would you be so kind as to wait here? I’d like to speak with Miss Westbrook alone. But I’d appreciate speaking with you shortly as well.”
“Yes, sir, Sheriff. I wait right here for you, sir.”
Elizabeth and McPherson climbed the stairs to the third floor and the door to her room came into view. Foreboding moved through her, starting at the base of her spine and inching its way upward. She paused.
She’d promised to keep Wendell Goldberg abreast of her progress, but this wasn’t something she could report to him. No, telling him this would be admitting defeat, and that was something she couldn’t do. Not to him or her father. Not even to herself. Not yet. Not until she was aboard a train back to Washington, failed career and bruised pride in tow, would she relinquish hold of this dream.
God had put the seed of this ambition in her heart ages ago, and to return to Washington with anything less than that position as hers would feel as if she were giving up on herself, and Him.
23
Elizabeth stood still in the hallway, light-headed, staring at the door to her room, not wanting to go back inside.
“You okay, ma’am?” McPherson touched her arm.
“I think so.” Her right hand ached and she cradled it with her left, noticing a tremble in both. The sheriff was with her. She had nothing to fear. “I’m just tired, and a little hungry.”
“I promise I won’t keep you long.”
McPherson took the lead. He started to turn the latch, and paused. “Are these yours?” He indicated the crates Josiah had left in the hallway.
“Yes, they arrived earlier today. Josiah was bringing them up when we discovered what had happened inside.”
Nodding, he opened the door and slowly pushed it back as if to get the full impact of the scene all at once.
The lamp on the bedside table cast an orange halo on thousands of tiny glass fragments littering the bed, the rugs, and the hardwood floor. A chemical odor lingered, but thanks to an open window, it wasn’t nearly as strong as before.
“Was the lamp burning when you left, Miss Westbrook?”
“No. I assume Miss Ruby lit it, but I’m not sure.”
His boots crunched on the shattered camera plates as he walked the length of the room and back. He sniffed. “Do you smell that? Something bitter.”
She tried to detect the scent and couldn’t. “All I smell are the chemicals. But I may just be accustomed to them.”
His gaze traveled the room. “They sure tore up your equipment, but did it in a neat fashion, compared to how they could have done it—using the bedclothes and your dresses to cut down on the noise. . . . But it looks like that’s all they did. I don’t see any damage to the furniture, to the room. Just your camera and what went along with that. Tell me . . .” He didn’t speak for a moment. “Yesterday you said that you believe Josiah to be a man of outstanding integrity and character. What do you actually know about Josiah Birch’s background? Where he’s been and what he’s done?”
Elizabeth’s heart did a painful flip. She swallowed, feeling a strong urge for a cup of tea. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Sheriff.”
“I’m just asking if you know what manner of man he is.”
“Are you questioning what manner of man he is? Look at what he just did for me. He saved my life.”
McPherson walked to where she stood, his expression open and sincere. “I’m just asking questions, Miss Westbrook. Trying to learn more about your situation so I can fit things together, try to help you. I’m not accusing anyone of anything.” His brows slowly rose in question.
She firmed her lips together and nodded once. “I met Josiah when I first came to Timber Ridge, only three weeks ago. But I would vouch for his character as I would other men I’ve known the better part of my life.”
He gave her an appraising look. “Once someone wins your confidence, Miss Westbrook, seems they’ve gained a strong ally.”
“That may be true. But be assured, Sheriff . . . my confidence isn’t something easily won. Be that to my credit, or otherwise.”
That patient stare of his again. Not condemning, not pardoning. Just assessing. Finally, he blinked. “I’d say that’s to your credit, ma’am.” He bent and picked up a piece of splintered wood. “Is there anything left of your equipment that’s salvageable?”
She removed Mr. Ranslett’s coat and laid it aside but kept on his shirt. She was eager to change into dry clothes, but it was important she survey the damage, and being out of the wind, she wasn’t nearly so cold now. She spotted a protective plate holder half hidden beneath the washstand and retrieved it. The slender wooden box was bent back, its hinge sprung, yet the wood hadn’t splintered. “This can be mended.” She handed it to him, and then her gaze fell to the edge of the bed.
She stooped and pulled out a box from the shipment Mullins had received late last week.
He knelt beside her. “What are those?”
She opened the box, mildly encouraged. “Fresh camera plates. At least they spared these.”
“Fresh . . . What does that mean?”
“It means I haven’t used them yet. They haven’t been exposed or developed.”
“So these don’t have pictures on them yet?”
“That’s right.” She briefly explained the process to him. “ . . . then once the plates are removed from the camera, they have an image burned into them through a chemical process that’s light sensitive. They have to be developed quickly, before the plate dries, in a darkroom. Then I can make multiple prints from them later. Like the ones I made of Coulter’s body for Mr. Carnes and Mr. Turner.”
He nodded. “Interesting. And impressive, Miss Westbrook. I take it you have a fairly good knowledge of science, and chemicals in particular.”
“More of chemicals than science. And only the ones I use regularly. I’m in no way a chemist, Sheriff. But I am highly respectful of the solutions I use. Some of them can be toxic if not handled correctly. But so can a lot of other common solutions we use every day.”
“True . . .” He stood, sighing as he did. “You go ahead and check your personal items. I’ll keep looking for something that might shed some light on this.”
She turned to the task, ready to have it done. Atop the desk, papers and files she’d last referenced remained undisturbed. As did books on a table in the far corner of the room. She moved next to the chifforobe and pulled open the top drawer. She stilled, frowning.
Things weren’t as she’d left them.
She skipped the other drawers and yanked open the door of the chifforobe where her dresses hung. The gowns had been shoved to one side and a green chiffon lace lay crumpled at the bottom of the closet.
She dropped to her knees and clawed through layers of lace and silk to get to the boxes stored at the bottom, vaguely aware of the sheriff kneeling beside her. The boxes were shuffled, some on their sides, but it was the burgundy leather cigar box, one of her father’s castoffs, that was the object of her search.
Her fingers touched on something. She felt a measure of relief but held it at bay until she opened the lid. . . .
Empty.
She let the box drop and dug her hands into the still-damp curls at her temples. She squeezed tight. Oh, God . . .
“Your money?” McPherson whispered beside her.
She nodded.
“All of it?”
She nodded again, wishing she were alone so she could give in to the moan wrenching its way up her throat. Silent tears slid down her cheeks. “Except what little I have in my reticule.”
All her life she’d wanted to do something special. Something that would make a lasting difference. That would set her apart in her father’s eyes. And she’d been foolish enough to think that God had been preparing her for something like that. But you were . . . weren’t you? Had she misread Him? Why would He place this love of words and images inside her if not to use it for His glory
? As the Chronicle’s next journalist photographer she could have accomplished so much good. Could have helped open the door for other women to follow. . . .
She took a steadying breath. She was through in Timber Ridge, and for that matter—at the Chronicle. Her former position had been filled, and Goldberg had communicated that nothing was guaranteed for the two applicants who didn’t win the position. She wiped her tears, knowing she would never see the cliff dwellings or see her pictures of them hung in any gallery.
Everything was over for her, even before it had begun.
24
Daniel left the general store and headed to the boardinghouse, Beau close on his heels. He didn’t know if something special was happening in town, but the hotel was booked up and the boardwalk was still lively with folks. Lolly could always be counted on to let him stay in the back room of the butcher shop. Daniel tugged at the collar of his new shirt, it being fresh from the shelf at Mullins’s store. He’d stopped to buy a change of clothes, his other still being with the launderer here in town.
Night draped Timber Ridge in shades of pewter gray, and coal-burning streetlamps perched upon wooden poles above the boardwalk encouraged evening walkers after sundown. He quickened his pace, mindful of the covered tin of food in his hand, and of Elizabeth Westbrook.
She had looked tired when he’d left her, understandably so.
He didn’t hold photographers and their profession in high regard—or hadn’t in the past—but what had happened to her was cruel. Part of him wished he could do something to help her, while the other part wondered if the destruction might not be God’s way of preventing her from going on her ill-conceived expedition. Especially after what he’d overheard her say when she wasn’t quite conscious back in the cave. Medicinal tonics made people run off at the mouth. He’d seen it plenty of times before.
Doc Brookston said you couldn’t pay attention to what people said at times like that, but he disagreed. Seems people spoke exactly what was most important to them at times like that. Or at least what was weighing heaviest on their hearts.
Which made him wonder what was weighing on hers, and who—or what—Goldberg was.
In a flash, the image of her lying there on the table, his knife poised at the base of her corset, came back to him. Why women wore such contraptions was beyond him, particularly when the woman had no need of it. He’d followed the doctor’s instructions as quickly as he’d been able. And though he’d tried hard not to, he’d seen more of Miss Westbrook than intended. He felt a fraction of guilt over it . . . yet couldn’t help appreciating what he’d seen—she was a beautiful woman. His mouth went dry again remembering just how beautiful. So he tried not to think about it.
But that was one scene that would stay in his memory for a long time to come.
Beau ran on a few paces ahead of him, then stopped and glanced back, one of his front paws tucked beneath him as though he were pointing at something. Wild flowers usually grew alongside this stretch of road, but it was much too early for them. The snows had yet to finish their work.
Ever since Beau was a pup, he’d loved flowers. Loved smelling them, rolling in them, wreaking havoc with them. Even eating them sometimes. Daniel remembered discovering Beau in his mother’s flower garden shortly after he’d gotten the dog. The shock on his mother’s face was as clear to him now as if he were standing again in that moment. The memory drew forth both a warmth and an emptiness.
“Daniel Wayne Ranslett! How can something so small make such a mess? Just look at my flowers!”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll clean it up.” Almost eighteen years old, he had gathered the broken stems and the chewed up white petals, vowing to plant new ones. Apparently, daisies were Beauregard’s favorite. His mother had so few pleasures in life and the flower garden was her haven—the one place she could go where Nathaniel Thursmann, her second husband, didn’t follow. “I’ll replant everything for you, Mama. I’ll even build a fence around it so Beau won’t do it again.”
When she didn’t answer, he turned to find her kneeling on the cobblestone path, her head bowed.
Sick inside, he went to her. “Mama, I’m sorry. I give you my word I’ll—”
His mother had scooped up Beau and was cradling the pup in her arms, cooing and kissing his little black nose. “He’s precious, Daniel, even though he is in my bad graces at the moment.” She gave the pup’s tiny head a rub and laughed when he tried to lick her face. “You were right to choose him over the others. He may have been the scrawniest, but he’s the sweetest. He’ll grow into his ears soon enough, and just look at those eyes. He has it in him to obey—you can see it. He has that desire to please. . . .”
Still cradling Beau in one arm, she held out a hand and Daniel helped her up. The sun shone on her blond hair, making it glimmer golden red in the light. With another kiss on the white tuft atop Beau’s head, she transferred the puppy to Daniel’s arms.
“And don’t build a fence, Daniel. Teach him, instead. I may lose a daisy . . . or twenty”—she smiled—“but it’ll be worth it in the long run.” Her attention trailed to the main house a good distance from where they stood. “Fences can be prisons, in a way. They’re necessary for those incapable of learning restraint, but they diminish life. If I had my way, I’d tear down every fence in Williamson County and across the state of Tennessee.”
He knew she didn’t mean it literally. At least he didn’t think so. “But what if Beau gets into your flowers again? What if he tears up something else?”
She turned back, her eyes wistful. “Then you’ll teach him again, until he’s learned. Just as I’ve done with you boys. That’s what God does with us, after all. Puts us out into the world where the only real boundary is that of His love. His love either compels us, or restrains us. There is nothing stronger, Danny.”
She brushed her fingers through the hair at his forehead. “Looking at you is like looking at your father, God rest his soul. You have his strength and his humor, you know—more so than your brothers.” Her voice went soft; the edges of her mouth trembled. “And his green eyes.” She glanced away for a second, then scratched beneath the pup’s chin. “I think you’ve found a good companion here, and a loyal one. Give him the care he deserves and the discipline he needs, and he’ll give you more love than you’ll know what to do with.”
“Miss Charlotte! You best come quick, ma’am!”
They looked up to see Maida running full out, half dragging little Benjamin behind her. Daniel caught the sheen of fear in his youngest brother’s eyes as his little legs pumped hard to keep up.
Maida’s coffee-colored skin glistened in the sun as she shooed Benjamin toward them. “It’s your husband, ma’am. Master Thurs—” She paused, her ample chest heaving, hands braced on her thighs. “Master Thursmann sho’ done it this time! He sho’ did. Hades itself is rainin’ down, ma’am.”
“Daniel, keep Benjamin here with you!” After giving Benjamin a hug, she set off for the house.
Daniel pulled his brother close and felt him trembling. “But what if—”
“No ifs,” she called over her shoulder. “You keep your brother safe! Above all!”
As his mother and Maida ran for the house, he looked beyond them and saw a wagon full of slaves pulling up, and a line of slaves being formed down the drive. He recognized the wagon as belonging to Ralston Stattam, one of Nathaniel Thursmann’s business partners, who had a plantation in Nashville. What had Thursmann gambled off this time? Or traded? Something of his mother’s, no doubt. Of course, it all belonged to his mother at one time. Nathaniel Thursmann had always chosen whatever caused her the most pain.
Daniel felt a nudge against his leg and blinked. He looked down, half expecting to see six-year-old Benjamin there, clinging to him, his eyes wide and questioning. Instead, it was ol’ Beau, panting, touches of gray around his muzzle, his tail thumping the dirt. But Daniel could still imagine his brother’s face, as well as his mother’s, and could smell the scent of her flower garden
on the wind.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. The scent was gone. Just like his mother. And Benjamin . . .
Beau whined and took a step toward where the wild flowers would soon be growing.
Daniel patted his head. “It’s too early, bud. There won’t be any—” He couldn’t believe his eyes. “Well, what do you know. . . .”
Elizabeth stood and wiped her tears. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I don’t normally do that in front of people.”
“What, cry?”
The way he said it tempted her to laugh. “Yes, that.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of, ma’am. You’ve been through a lot, and I’m not talking about just today. Takes courage to come out to a place like this, all by yourself, and to do what you’re doing. You have a strength about you, ma’am. A strength that’s admirable.” He reached for his hat he’d hung on the bedpost. “I’m heading down to talk to Josiah—just to get to know him better,” he added quickly. “We’ll be at my office for a while, in case you need anything.” He glanced around. “I’ll see that this is cleaned up while you’re at the doctor’s this evening. Then you can come back and get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
“One of the longest I can remember.” She looked down at the cut on her hand. And the day wasn’t over yet. She doubted she’d be able to sleep in this room again, even after it was cleaned up. But after what the sheriff had just said, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that.
The memory of Tillie’s voice came back to her, as clear inside her head as if the woman were standing in the room. “As long as you’re still breathing, child, you still got choices.” Thinking of Tillie again made her tender inside. She wanted to trust Tillie’s wisdom, but she saw no choices at the moment. None but to return to Washington. And that wasn’t a choice she was willing to make, not as long as she had breath. Which might not be long in her case.
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