Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01]

by From a Distance

  “But that didn’t work?”

  “No, ma’am.” Not in the way she meant. He smiled in hopes of easing her discomfort. “So the doc told me to cut off your corset, and I did.”

  In the glow of the coal-burning streetlamp, her struggle was evident, as was her fatigue. She pressed her lips together. “Was my . . . Did you . . .”

  No matter that she couldn’t get the words out, Daniel knew what she was asking. “It was just me and the doc, Elizabeth. Your modesty and decency weren’t compromised in any way.”

  She smoothed a hand over the buttons of her coat. “So . . . you and I . . .” She gestured between them. “We’re . . . all right, then.”

  He liked this side of her—very much—but was torn between not being completely honest and coming off as some mannerless rogue. He decided to try and split the difference. “You and I are just fine, Elizabeth.”

  She exhaled, obviously relieved.

  “But may I say that you are one . . . beautiful . . . woman.”

  25

  Daniel tried the doorknob, then held out his hand. “May I have your key?”

  Wordless, Elizabeth retrieved it from her reticule and handed it to him, still thinking about what he’d said. “You are one beautiful woman.” She knew she wasn’t all that pretty, but she liked that he thought she was.

  After two attempts, the latch clicked and Daniel pushed the door open. “Stay here.” His soft command brooked no room for argument, not that she would have given any. She still wasn’t eager to return and, though exhausted, didn’t think she would sleep a wink.

  She stood outside, Beau sitting beside her, while Daniel lit the lamp and checked the windows, then peered beneath the bed, and—from the telling creak—looked inside the chifforobe.

  “Everything’s in order. Or mostly so.”

  She stepped inside, surprised at the cleanliness of the room. But like a glass camera plate with an image developed into it, the image of what the room had looked like in its disheveled state was burned into her memory and made it difficult to see it any other way.

  Beau sniffed at several places on the floorboards and sneezed.

  A silver tea service adorned the desk and—bless that Miss Ruby—the pot was warm to the touch. Elizabeth poured herself a cup.

  “If that’s tea, you might consider foregoing it. You’ll sleep better tonight.”

  Her back to him, Elizabeth opened the desk drawer, relieved to see the bottle of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup still there, and added a portion of its contents to the china cup. “On the contrary. This is an herbal tea my physician prescribed for my lungs and that you heard Dr. Brookston recommend this evening. Miss Ruby delivers a pot every morning and evening, per our arrangement.” She stirred and sipped, closing her eyes as the warm liquid burned its way down. Its bitter taste was a deceitful precursor to a promised calm.

  Daniel stared from across the room. “Are you having trouble breathing right now?”

  She shook her head, finishing that cup and preparing a second.

  “And I’m determined not to. Would you like some? I can get another cup.”

  “No . . . thank you.”

  She looked around the room, trying to convince herself she could stay. And failing. “I can’t be in this room, Daniel.”

  “We can leave for a while. Go for a walk and let it air out some more if—”

  “No, I mean I can’t stay here anymore.”

  He considered her from across the room. “All right, then, we’ll find you another place to stay. Maybe Miss Ruby has another room. I’ll go ask in a minute. I know the hotel’s full, because I already checked there.”

  Elizabeth nodded and ran a hand over the books on the shelf, mentally counting the volumes as she went, in case any were missing. They were all there.

  “Miss Westbrook?”

  Turning, she saw who was peering through the partially open door and felt the tea churn in her stomach. What timing.

  “Mr. Turner . . .”

  She acknowledged the illustrious Timber Ridge Reporter’s editor, then shot Daniel a glance. Daniel did a quick back step behind the chifforobe, his hand motions clearly communicating that he preferred to remain invisible. Considering the occupation of their visitor and his eagerness to uncover stories, she was inclined to agree. She didn’t need Turner writing anything about her entertaining some late-night visitor. . . .

  “Good evening, ma’am. I was hoping to find you in, though I’m sorry to be calling at so late an hour. I heard you’ve had a pretty hard day.”

  Elizabeth stepped closer to the door, aware of Beau’s watchfulness and praying he wouldn’t follow her. “It’s had its challenges, and I’m glad it’s almost over.” She guessed why Turner had come to visit and hoped he would take her hint.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw Daniel pressed back against the wall, his expression comical. He motioned for Beau to move closer to him, and the dog obeyed but with some hesitation.

  Turner tipped his bowler—sporting a different feather in the rim, if her memory served. Quite the dashing reporter. “When I heard about what happened, I tried to get over sooner, but duties at the Reporter kept me confined overlong this evening.” He gestured at her hand, frowning. “Were you in some sort of struggle? Was an assailant involved?”

  She lifted her bandaged hand. “No, no, there was no struggle, and no assailant. I cut my hand on a piece of glass. It happened afterward. All very boring.”

  “Ahh . . .” He proceeded to pull out a pad and pencil from his coat pocket. “I’m sure you’re still in shock, but I’d like to ask you some brief questions, if that’d be all right.”

  “Actually, I—”

  “Do you have any idea who might have targeted you in this way, Miss Westbrook? Or why?” He waited, expression expectant, pencil poised.

  Elizabeth studied him, and a single niggling thought begged answer—was her own inquisitive nature ever perceived this way by people? She identified with his eagerness for a story, and shared it. But his abrasive manner . . .

  “I’m more than open to speaking with you, Mr. Turner. But it’s rather late, and as we’ve both said, I’ve had a very long day. I’m certain you’ll under—”

  “I know, and I apologize again for that, Miss Westbrook. But I’m publishing a special edition of the newspaper tomorrow and would like to get your version of what happened. I’ve already spoken with the deputy—the one who supervised the cleaning of your room. He gave me his side of things, but I’d appreciate the chance to get my facts straight before we go to press in the morning.” He gave her a smile that said he knew he was being forward—just like Wendell Goldberg—and that he hoped she would be forgiving.

  She didn’t know which bothered her more—the fact that this . . . violation she’d endured would be splashed in black-and-white all over the Reporter for everyone in Timber Ridge to read over breakfast, or that she recognized Turner’s pressure tactics as ones she had used herself on occasion.

  “This won’t take long, ma’am.”

  She acquiesced, familiar with that line too, and laid aside her teacup. She directed him to a bench in the hallway, glad Daniel was nearby and especially glad Turner didn’t know it. “I’d feel more comfortable meeting out here, if you don’t mind.” She left the door ajar.

  “Certainly, Miss Westbrook. It still smells a bit strong in there. The deputy told me it was the chemicals you use in your work.”

  “Yes, all of the bottles were broken.”

  As soon as she’d sat down, she heard a faint thumping coming from inside the room. When she realized what it was, she cleared her throat. Twice. The thumping stopped. Turner didn’t seem to notice.

  “If you don’t mind, before we discuss the crime that took place here, I’d like to ask a few questions about this hobby of yours. Give readers a glimpse of the woman behind the camera.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the overly dramatic flair in his voice—a clear attempt to ingratiate himself with the interview
ee. She’d done that too, and now cringed, remembering. “That will be fine.”

  “Oh, and before I forget—you don’t happen to have a photograph of yourself taken alongside your camera, do you? That would be a wonderful accompaniment to go with the—”

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.” She smiled to soften the interruption.

  “Well, I guess any photograph of you would do, then. Whatever you’d like to give me.”

  “Again, Mr. Turner, I’m sorry. But I don’t have any photographs of myself available.”

  “None?” He seemed surprised, then gave a small chuckle. “That’s sort of like a cook who doesn’t eat her own food, isn’t it, Miss Westbrook?”

  She didn’t care for his tone, or this particular topic. “I’ll be happy to answer a few questions, unless you’d rather—”

  “Very well.” He looked slightly disheartened. “Tell me, how did such a . . . mature woman like yourself take up the hobby of photography and decide to move out west?”

  Mature woman? The phrase was jarring, like a note sung off-key in full voice. Her thoughts went to Daniel, sequestered in her room, listening to everything they said. No doubt he was enjoying this. It wasn’t the first time she’d been described in that manner, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. In fact, she’d heard it stated in far less complimentary terms. She hadn’t been much past the age of eighteen when it first began. For years she’d told herself it didn’t bother her, and most days it truly didn’t—not anymore.

  She pasted on a smile, knowing how to guide an interview. She only hoped Turner would take notes on that.

  “My love for photography, Mr. Turner, grew out of my love for science and nature. In the fall of 1861, in New York City, I met a Mr. Mathew Brady when he was photographing the late President Lincoln. I had the good fortune of assisting him in that session, and that’s when I realized that I had a strong affinity for . . .”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, no matter what question Turner posed, she responded with information she chose to give. Finally, she rose, signaling the interview was concluded.

  Turner followed her lead.

  “I appreciate your time, Miss Westbrook, and your clever insights.

  You’ve been so open, and helpful. Nothing irritates me more than printing something that’s not accurate.” He retrieved his hat from the bench. “Just one last query and I’ll be on my way. You know a man by the name of Josiah Birch, do you not?”

  She sensed he was toying with her, and she didn’t like it. “Yes, I do. You saw him this week, in fact, when we met at the coroner’s. Mr. Birch is in my employ and is a fine, upstanding man.”

  “You know . . .” He tapped his pencil. “I wondered if that was him. Are you aware that this Negro—” He paused as though catching himself. “This fine, upstanding man,” he added quickly. “The one in your current employ . . . is wanted for the murder of a white man in the state of Tennessee? Shot a defenseless man in the back. The poor fella never knew what killed him.”

  Like a pendulum suspended in midair, the moment hung. Fractured. Separate. The only sound Elizabeth could distinguish was the soft whoosh of wind outside the hallway window.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn, ma’am.” Turner slid his pencil and paper into his pocket. “But I take it from your reaction that you weren’t privy to this information before hiring him.”

  She tried to swallow, but the dryness in her mouth prevented it.

  “It’s none of my business, and you’re free to tell me so, but . . . I’d advise you to be careful whom you associate with out here. People tend to judge a woman by the company she keeps, and things can get . . . complicated if she insists on keeping close company with a Negro. This isn’t Washington, as I told you before, ma’am, and you’ll quickly discover that folks in these parts don’t appreciate being led on. They don’t take kindly to pretense.” His eyes were bereft of warmth. “And they won’t care much that you’re the daughter of a United States senator.”

  Elizabeth was too stunned to speak. A creaking noise sounded behind her and she turned to see her bedroom door move an inch. Then another. She prayed Daniel wouldn’t show himself and that he hadn’t heard what Turner had just said.

  Then she saw it, a black button nose edging its way toward the threshold. She saw it clearly from her vantage point and wondered if Turner could. A soft shuffle and the nose disappeared.

  For a second she thought Turner might go investigate.

  His smile was presumptuous. “I didn’t know you were entertaining company at this late hour, Miss Westbrook. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  Her face heated. “It must be the wind, Mr. Turner. You know how drafty these clapboard buildings can be. Like you said, this isn’t Washington.”

  He studied her for a moment, then walked toward the stairs. “You be sure and stop by the Reporter sometime tomorrow, Miss Westbrook. I’ll have a special edition out.” At the staircase he turned back. “And I always make sure our lead story gets a complimentary copy.”

  26

  Standing in the hallway, Elizabeth could only stare at Drayton Turner as he disappeared down the stairwell. The word underestimated rose in her mind. Yet part of her, a very small part, actually admired the tactics he’d used. His skill lay beyond what she’d credited him. His main reason in coming here tonight had been to spring the information about Josiah on her. His inquiries about photography had been a ruse, and she’d fallen for it, partially out of a desire to impress him with her experiences with Mathew Brady and President Lincoln. How foolish . . .

  And Josiah, wanted for murder. Impossible. There had to be some mistake.

  But what would happen to him when Turner printed the condemning assumption in the morning paper? And without question, Turner would print it. He would likely begin with something about her father being a U.S. senator, then add a line, maybe two, about her photography, then he would list the charge against Josiah. She knew that’s what Turner would do because that’s what Wendell Goldberg would’ve done, and what Goldberg would have instructed her to do.

  She wanted the position at the Chronicle more than anything else. That’s what she’d been working toward for the past ten years. But there were times when she questioned whether she had what it took to do the job.

  Turner might toss in the term alleged, which would matter little to the people of Timber Ridge. Once readers of the Reporter saw the word murder and they discovered, if they didn’t know already, that Josiah was a Negro—which Turner would mention without fail—Josiah would be linked to the death of Travis Coulter, and his fate would be sealed.

  She had to tell him. Get to Josiah and warn him. But she had no idea where he was.

  Daniel . . .

  She turned to find him standing in the doorway of her room. Discovery shaded his features, telling her he’d heard every word of her conversation with Turner. He slipped his hat on and whistled low for Beau. The dog appeared around the corner.

  The sheriff had said Daniel could track anybody and anything, and that he knew these mountains. But she also knew how Daniel felt about Josiah, about his people in general. He didn’t hate them as some did, but he clearly didn’t see them as his equals. Following that thread of prejudice, she doubted whether he would be willing to help her.

  “Do you have any idea where Birch is right now?” Daniel asked. “Where he stays?”

  The concern in his voice surprised her. “When I asked him a few days ago, all he said was God had given him plenty of forest. And caves—he did mention caves. Does that tell you anything?”

  “Yes, ma’am. . . . It tells me he could be anywhere within a five-hundred-mile radius of here.” A smile tempered his sarcasm. “I’ll find him. Hopefully before sunup.”

  As he passed her in the hallway, she stopped him. “Thank you, Daniel. And it won’t take me but a moment to get ready.”

  He glanced down at her hand on his arm, then looked as if he might offer disagreement. “I’ll get my h
orse from the livery and meet you outside.”

  “He didn’t do it.” Her voice came out more hushed than she’d wanted.

  Daniel paused, then brushed back a curl from her face. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I know him. It may sound strange to you, I realize, but I know the heart that beats inside of that man. And he didn’t do it.”

  He covered her hand. “A man can do a lot of things in his life, Elizabeth. Things so opposite each other that, over time, he can bear little resemblance to the person he once was.”

  “Josiah doesn’t have it in him to kill a man. Not in that way.”

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed and went dark and deep as seawater at midnight. “And just what way would that be?” A hardness had slipped into his voice.

  “Josiah might kill to protect himself, but he would never kill a defenseless man, Daniel. That would be cowardly and cruel, and beneath a man of honor.”

  Daniel stepped back, looking as if she’d slapped him. “Beneath a man of honor?”

  She wondered at the question in his tone. Perhaps she’d underestimated his animosity toward Negroes after all.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs in a few minutes. And I’ll do my best to find him.”

  Daniel assisted Elizabeth into the saddle, mindful of her bandaged hand, and then pulled himself up behind her. Her judgment from moments ago still burned inside him. “Beneath a man of honor.”

  If she felt that way about Josiah being accused of a murder, how would she feel if she knew he’d killed countless defenseless men? He told himself it was different and wanted to believe she would see it that way too. It had been war, and though the men hadn’t known they were about to die, they’d hardly been defenseless. They’d served as the masterminds of death for thousands from their pristine offices back in Washington or from their tents far removed from the heat of battle. Yet the faces of those very men, their sudden shock as they realized their fate and surrendered to it unwillingly, still haunted him. And would until the day he died.