Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01]

by From a Distance

  Anger rose inside her, imagining what falsehood Turner might have written about Josiah, and what it had spawned. “They’re lies, Daniel. All lies. Josiah couldn’t have done what Turner said he did last night. Josiah’s a good man. And good men don’t—”

  “Good men make mistakes, Elizabeth. They do things they regret.” Daniel exhaled and looked away, shaking his head. When he looked back, his eyes were moist. “Whatever Josiah’s done or hasn’t done, don’t add the weight of your disappointment to his burden. He’s carrying enough on his own right now.”

  Her throat tightened as the impact of his words hit her square in the heart. She clenched her jaw, and a single tear slipped slowly down her cheek and into the corner of her mouth. The salt from it was bitter on her tongue, as was the reminder of her father’s disappointment in her.

  Daniel held out the newspaper. “You need to look at it.”

  Something inside told her she didn’t want to. “I’ll go get my things.”

  He took hold of her arm as she tried to pass. His grip was gentle but unrelenting. “Read it, Elizabeth.”

  Something in his voice made her lift her chin, and his pained expression made her wish she hadn’t. She took the paper and opened to the front page. Reading the banner across the top, she sucked in a breath.

  WASHINGTON CHRONICLE REPORTER

  VISITS TIMBER RIDGE

  Then just below that, in slightly smaller type—

  MURDER SUSPECT SOUGHT IN SOUTHERN SLAYING

  She reached out for something to hold on to, and Daniel was there. He held her steady, close beside her, yet felt so distant. Her hands shook as she struggled to focus on the page.

  Elizabeth Westbrook . . . employee of the Washington Daily Chronicle and daughter of a United States senator . . . photographer for specious eastern publication comes west seeking adventure . . . armed with her camera and enough determination to conquer anything that stands in her path . . . working in conjunction with a land developer to . . .

  She felt naked and exposed, and the more she read, the more vulnerable she became.

  Plagued with lung disorder . . . benefited from the expertise of the town’s new physician . . . ostensibly was acquainted with the late President Lincoln . . . her room was ransacked . . . expedition south to cliff dwellings could be in jeopardy . . .

  Her conscience aching, she moved down the page, wishing she could throttle Drayton Turner.

  Josiah Birch . . . former slave of the state of Tennessee and alleged suspect . . . accused in the murder of plantation owner . . . November 11, 1866. Body discovered . . . wooded area . . . cause of death, broken neck. Birch suspected of accessory . . . freed under suspicion due to lack of evidence. Sheriff seeks Birch for questioning in Coulter murder . . . Birch made recent threat on Coulter’s life.

  She’d eaten nothing since last evening, yet her stomach churned. Shame sluiced through her. She felt Daniel looking at her but couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  “I can explain,” she whispered.

  He let go of her. “Not right now. We need to get back to town.”

  “What Turner has written isn’t all true, Daniel. I can prove—”

  “Just get your things, Elizabeth. Please . . .”

  She hurried inside and told Rachel only that they’d found Josiah, then grabbed her coat and reticule and met Daniel out front. He was astride the mare and waiting by the bottom step. Holding her bandaged hand close to her chest to protect it, Elizabeth gripped his hand, slipped her left foot in the stirrup, and swung up behind him. All without looking at him.

  He urged the mare down the path. She tried holding on to the cantle but there wasn’t enough of the saddle’s edge to grip without getting too close to Daniel. She nearly slipped off and quickly grabbed the back of his coat.

  He reined in. “Put your arms around me.”

  She placed her hands on either side of his waist.

  “Around me, Elizabeth.”

  When she didn’t, he took hold of her left hand and drew it snugly around him. “Give me your other.”

  With care, she reached her bandaged hand around. He gently took hold and pulled her forward until her chest was flush against his back.

  “Now hold on.”

  The horse’s gait was smooth and fleet, and the mare seemed to anticipate the challenges of the mountain terrain as well as her master did. Elizabeth would never have attempted these trails at this speed with her horse, but not once did she feel endangered.

  Evergreen boughs laced with ice glistened in the morning sun. Daniel’s leather coat was soft against her cheek, and she relished his warmth as they rode. The snows hadn’t come yet, but the biting cold promised they would.

  She didn’t know how Turner had discovered her affiliation with the Chronicle, but she was going to face him and demand that he correct the errors he’d printed. But as Sheriff McPherson said, the damage had already been done. She couldn’t account for it, but the pain she’d experienced yesterday after finding her equipment destroyed and her money gone somehow hurt less than the sense of betrayal and deception—and disgrace—filling her now.

  In the distance, a sharp wind cut over the top of the North Maroon Bell and sent a plume of ice and snow into the atmosphere. She watched it float and swirl, descending, drifting on a current, falling and falling, until it finally dissipated into nothing.

  She tightened her grip around Daniel’s waist.

  Once down the mountain, Daniel skirted town by way of a trail that emptied out near Dr. Brookston’s clinic. Beau was on the boardwalk, right where he’d left him, lying at the deputy’s feet. Daniel dismounted and helped Elizabeth down, noticing how winded she seemed, and remembering how tightly she’d held to him. She looked ashamed, and defeated, and angry—all at once.

  He walked up the stairs, hearing her steps echoing his. “McPherson had some fires to tend to at his office. He asked me to bring you by after we’re done here.” He acknowledged the deputy, then paused before opening the door to Brookston’s clinic, not knowing what they were walking into. “You ready?”

  Her head came up. Her blue eyes wide, curls falling in disarray down her back, she opened her mouth to say something, then pressed her lips closed and nodded.

  The doctor was pulling a sheet up over Josiah as they walked in, and Daniel stopped midstep, then relaxed when Dr. Brookston tucked it around Josiah’s shoulders.

  The doctor motioned them forward. “Come in, Miss Westbrook, Mr. Ranslett.” He retrieved a jar from a shelf. “Mr. Birch was asking for you earlier, ma’am. He’s heavily medicated at the moment”—he shot Daniel a look—“so he’s slipping in and out.”

  Daniel saw the open bottle of “medication” on the shelf but he didn’t think Elizabeth did.

  She took hesitant steps forward and laid a trembling hand on Josiah’s chest. Tears slid down her cheeks.

  When he’d read the headline this morning and then learned she was in the area on behalf of land developers, that had surprised him. He’d suspected she’d been hiding something, but nothing like that. Developers coming in was a volatile issue, and Timber Ridge was divided over it. But at least he knew now why she’d singled him out—for his land.

  Bandages covered the right side of Josiah’s face, hiding a deep gash that had, thankfully, missed his eye. His left arm was swathed in gauze, then wrapped close to his body to be immobile, not surprising considering its odd angle when they’d found him. But at least the bone hadn’t been broken. Eyes closed, his chest rose and fell in a strong, even rhythm, a good sign.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Elizabeth whispered.

  Dr. Brookston unscrewed the lid to the jar. “If determination counts for anything, then yes, I have every reason to believe he will be, given the opportunity to heal. I don’t think I’ve met a man who possesses a stronger constitution.” He gestured. “Speak to him, if you’d like. He might well respond to the sound of your voice.”

  She exchanged places with the doctor beside
the table and leaned close. “Josiah?” When he didn’t respond, she waited and tried again, louder the second time.

  Josiah’s eyes fluttered, then closed. “Miz Westbrook . . . that you, ma’am?”

  She hiccupped a sob. “Yes, it’s me.” She lightly patted his arm. “I’m so sorry, Josiah.”

  With his good arm, Josiah reached over and stroked her hair. “Oh, ma’am, don’t you be carryin’ no burden for this. This ain’t your fault.”

  “Y-yes, it is. What’s in the paper this morning . . . I caused all this.”

  He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “That’s not right thinkin’, ma’am. I know it for sure . . . cuz I done laid by that stream most of the night.”

  Daniel saw Elizabeth bow her head, probably thinking what he was—that they had passed not far from that streambed shortly before midnight. It had gotten bitter cold, and Josiah had been stripped of his clothing.

  Dr. Brookston dipped his fingers in a creamy salve and began applying it to the cuts on Josiah’s arm. Elizabeth eased the jar from his hand and resumed where he’d left off.

  Josiah blinked slowly and managed to open his eyes. “It’s good to see your pretty face, Miz Westbrook.”

  She gave a sharp laugh. “Clearly the . . . medication Dr. Brookston is administering to you is affecting your eyesight.”

  Daniel smiled—so she had seen the bottle. Dr. Brookston’s eyes widened as though he’d been caught red-handed.

  Josiah tried to raise his head. “You okay, Miz Westbrook? Any harm come to you?”

  “No, no harm.”

  “Then why you cryin’ so? I’s the one laid out on this table!”

  His deep laughter filled the office and drew theirs out too. Elizabeth laid her pale hand on his dark forehead and Josiah sighed. “Your hand feels good, ma’am. It’s cool, like you been dippin’ it in a mountain stream.”

  As Daniel watched from a few feet away, he witnessed the friendship between them. In her tenderness and respect, in Josiah’s laughter and protectiveness, and it was a friendship like he’d never seen before. Not with this particular type of pairing, anyway.

  He moved to sit on a nearby stool and felt the pinewood floor give beneath his weight. He hoped Brookston was as handy with a hammer as he was with a needle. On the table next to him was the leather pouch he’d found not far from Josiah’s body. He had briefly looked inside. It appeared to hold a collection of notes, like pages from a journal, most of them many years old by the looks of them.

  Josiah winced, and Dr. Brookston poured more whiskey into a cup. Elizabeth intercepted it and supported Josiah’s neck as he took sips. Once the cup was empty, she eased his head back onto the pillow.

  “Minute ago, ma’am . . .” Josiah closed his eyes. “You say somethin’ to me ’bout that newspaper. What’s in there—” he took a breath—“that’s got you thinkin’ this was your fault?”

  “Mr. Turner wrote articles about me, and about you. Some of what he said was not favorable, nor kind.”

  “What he’s sayin’ about you . . . Is it true?”

  “Some of it is, and some of it isn’t.”

  “Is it the truth got you upset, ma’am? Or the lies?”

  She took a wet cloth from Dr. Brookston and smoothed it across Josiah’s forehead. “A little of both, I guess.”

  “Way I see it, Miz Westbrook, if you mad ’bout him writin’ the truth, you gotta ask yourself why. But if it’s lies he’s tellin’, some folks’ll believe ’em. Some won’t. Best thing you can do is live a life that makes him the liar.”

  Daniel weighed the man’s counsel and found it sound. Dr. Brookston sat hunched on a stool across the room, grinding something in his mortar and pestle, privy to every word. The tick of a mantel clock bracketed the silence.

  Elizabeth leaned close. “Can you still hear me, Josiah?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I hear you fine. My eyes is just tired.”

  She took hold of his hand. “I want you to listen to me, then. . . .”

  To Daniel’s surprise, she turned and looked at him. She held his stare, and he saw it cross her face—that instant where a person wonders whether they should tell the entire truth or not. When they weigh the choice and the risk of trusting someone, against the advantage of keeping their cards tucked close against their vest.

  If he was reading her right—and countless hands of winning poker said his instincts were good—Elizabeth Westbrook was about to lay down and come clean.

  28

  I have lied to you . . . Josiah. Photography isn’t just a hobby for me. I . . . I work for a newspaper back east . . . called the Washington Daily Chronicle.”

  Daniel could tell by the quick breaths she took that this was difficult for her. And yet she never broke his gaze. She had addressed Josiah, whose hand she still held and who lay on the table between them, but Daniel knew she was addressing him too, and he felt privileged to be the one she was looking at.

  “I’m a secretary and the assistant to—” Her expression reflected distaste, and she started again. “I write articles for the newspaper, and I’m here on a . . . job interview, if you want to call it that. These photographs I’ve been taking”—her voice grew stronger—“and the ones I was going to take at the cliff dwellings, along with articles I’ve written, were going to be part of my portfolio that would be considered when they decide who the new staff photographer and journalist will be.”

  Daniel nodded once in silent acceptance of what she’d said, and wondered if Josiah had fallen asleep.

  “You done speakin’, ma’am?” His eyes still closed, Josiah’s voice came out strong. “Ready for me to say my piece yet?”

  “No,” she said quietly. “But almost.”

  Daniel held her stare, not in the least tired of looking at this woman. Or of listening.

  “I’ve also been here looking at land for a company that wants to build a hotel. That’s why we went to Travis Coulter’s that day, and why I was so insistent about going on to the cabin. I’m not associated with the company in any way other than taking photographs of land and finding out who the various landowners are. That’s all.” She struggled with emotion. “I never intended to hurt anybody or to use anyone like I have. And I regret any misunderstanding I’ve caused.” Slowly, her shoulders relaxed. “All right, I’m done, Josiah. You can say your piece.”

  He laughed softly. “All I got to say is . . . I had a feelin’ there was more to you, Miz Westbrook. I just didn’t know what it was.”

  Daniel smiled. He liked this man more all the time.

  “But somethin’ else I wanna know, ma’am.” Josiah lifted his head from the pillow. “Does your papa know what you doin’ out here?”

  Daniel waited, interested in this answer.

  “No, he doesn’t.” She looked away. “He thinks I’ve come out here to be a teacher, to start a school. And in an effort to help me”—sarcasm laced the word—“he spoke with a colleague and arranged to send all those supplies—the books and slates you carried to my room. Any day now, a shipment of furniture is set to arrive as well.”

  “Your papa a teacher?”

  The first hint of a smile appeared on her face. “No, my father’s a senator in the United States Congress. That’s part of the government in Washington.”

  Josiah let out a gentle whoop. “You’s a real important woman, Miz Westbrook.”

  Her smile faded. “No.” She shook her head. “I’m just the daughter of a real important man.”

  Daniel waited on the boardwalk outside the sheriff ’s office. He rubbed his face and sighed, tired from lack of sleep. Beau rested at his feet.

  Over an hour had passed since he’d escorted Elizabeth inside to speak with James. She’d looked frightened. James was a man you wanted on your side at times like this, but he hadn’t faulted her for being nervous. One thing you didn’t want to do to James McPherson was lie.

  The door to the sheriff ’s office opened and Beau jumped up.

  James closed the
door behind him, looking as tired as Daniel felt. “Willis is going to stay with her awhile, and Lyda Mullins is bringing her some lunch.” He motioned. “Let’s take a walk. I think better when I move.”

  Daniel fell into step beside him, and Beau followed without command. James set out on what used to be their customary route.

  “I feel better keeping Miss Westbrook in my office than letting her walk around town right now.”

  Daniel slowed his steps. “Do you think she’s in danger?”

  “Not with us watching over her. But talking to her just now makes me think that whoever was in her room yesterday was looking for something. Oh, they took her money, all right, but I don’t think that’s what they went there for.” James looked over at him. “Did you know she took another picture of Coulter’s body?”

  It took Daniel a second to track with him. “You mean besides the one Turner printed in the paper?”

  James relayed what Elizabeth had told him, and as Daniel listened, it struck him that she really was a reporter, just like Turner. No, that wasn’t fair. She was nothing like Drayton Turner. Elizabeth might share a similar curiosity, but he couldn’t imagine her printing some of what Turner had published in his paper in recent months.

  Beau ran on ahead and with a whistle, Daniel encouraged him back. “Can she get you that first photograph?”

  James paused at the edge of Maroon Lake. “She’s wiring her employer at the Chronicle today to ask them to send it back. It might take two or three weeks, she said. But that’s one picture I want to see. I talked to her about Josiah too. I’ve got a telegram on its way to a judge in Tennessee. If anything doesn’t check out about Turner’s story, we’ll know it soon enough. Turner says that what he printed about Birch is true.” He stooped to pick up a rock, then hauled back and threw it. It angled sideways over the water—one, two, three skips—before plopping full under the surface.

  Well-chosen stone at the ready, Daniel followed suit. One, two . . . five, six. His stone skimmed farther across the lake, leaving barely any wake. He heard a snort of disgust beside him.