“That friend be the sheriff, sir?”
Daniel smiled, nodding. “McPherson and I grew up together.”
“I thought I seen a kinship between you two, sir.”
Daniel removed the cloth from Josiah’s forehead and soaked it afresh in a basin of water. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m ’bout to die, but heaven ain’t sure they’s ready for me yet.” Josiah sighed when Daniel reapplied the damp cloth. “That feels good, sir. Thank you. I just so tired . . . my body feels heavy, sir. Like I’m ’bout to sink through the earth.”
Daniel watched him, wishing he could do more. “You kept saying something about a bell earlier. Do you remember?”
Acknowledgment showed in Josiah’s face. “I don’t remember sayin’ it, but I ain’t surprised I did.”
Daniel waited, figuring he would say more if he wanted to.
“You see my clothes anywhere, sir?”
Accepting the turn in conversation, Daniel looked around. He spotted some things set to one side of the tepee and recognized the leather pouch he’d picked up the night he found Josiah by the stream. “I see what was in your pockets, but I’m guessing your clothes are gone.”
“You see a pouch, sir?”
“Yes . . .” He rose to get it and pressed it into Josiah’s hand.
“Thank you, sir.” Josiah’s chin trembled, and several moments passed before he spoke again. “You read any of what’s in here, Mr. Ranslett?”
Having been tempted to the night he’d first found it, Daniel was glad now that he could answer truthfully. “No, I haven’t.”
Josiah held it out. “Take it.”
Daniel hesitated.
“Take it, sir, please. And you reads it.” Josiah nudged it forward. “When a man gets close to dyin’ . . . it be a comfort to have a body near who understands what his life was like. Leastwise a little. Makes him feel less like he’s by hisself.”
Humbled, Daniel took the pouch.
“You keep it and show it to Miz Westbrook, when she’s able. And whatever comes, if you need to . . . leave me behind, sir, I understand. Miz Westbrook, she an important woman. She gots her schedule to keep.”
“Miss Westbrook’s schedule is no longer her own, Josiah. And we’re not leaving without you—she wouldn’t have it.”
A brief smile touched Josiah’s mouth. “I sure would like to see them caves she talked about, sir.” He shivered. “Seein’ things from long ago still standin’ . . . gives me hope somehow.”
“I feel the very same way, Josiah. You just concentrate on getting well, and I give you my word, I’ll get you there to see them.”
Over the next three days, as Daniel alternated between caring for Elizabeth and Josiah, he read the frayed pages tucked inside the leather pouch, and quickly began to feel like an intruder. He’d even begun to hear the faintest inaudible echo of a woman’s voice as he read. The voice of the woman who had penned the words—only one woman, in his estimation, whose voice was penetrating, fragile with pain, and whose story he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know.
Judging from the journal’s personal nature, whoever had written it had probably assumed the thoughts therein would remain private, and with good reason. The handwriting was slow to read and difficult to decipher, and the words were written more from how they sounded rather than with the proper spelling. No dates were given, no names, and the pages weren’t in any identifiable order.
But telling by the tattered edges, Josiah had read them often.
Elizabeth stirred on the pallet beside him. Her eyes fluttered open. Daniel laid aside the page he’d been reading and held a cup of water to her lips. She drank the cup dry.
“You want some more?”
She shook her head, wincing. “I want my head . . . to stop pounding.” Her voice was hoarse from disuse.
He caressed her forehead. “It will . . . soon. And if it helps any, you’re through the worst of it now.”
Skepticism knit her brow. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“I promise, you are. In fact, I’m so sure of it”—he watched her—“that I’m willing to strike hands on it.”
She looked at him. Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you said you’d never strike hands with a woman.”
He shrugged. “I did. But . . . people change.” He offered his hand.
She stared for a second, then reached out. Her grip was weak, and he kept the exchange gentle, yet firm enough to make it real. She held on for longer than necessary, and a protectiveness rose inside him.
He spoon-fed her some lukewarm broth, and she gradually slipped back into sleep.
He picked up the journal page he’d laid aside, finished reading it, then pulled the next sheet from the pouch. His gaze fell upon the sentence at the top, and a tide of trespassing—and injustice—washed through him.
i iz maed to stande neked in frunt of him. he did not tuch me at furst. he jus luk at me wit thos eyez thae bern my sken. i tri not to shak but canot hol bak frum it. i pritende u iz tuching me but u wud not be ruf. i clen misef when he dun. i wan to tel u but he sade he kil u if i do.
Daniel winced at the scene forming in his mind. Disgust curdled the pit of his stomach. He smoothed a finger over the page where deep scratches from the quill had indented the paper, and only then did he notice that this particular page appeared different from the others he’d read so far.
It was nicer paper, heavier by the feel of it, a stationery of some sort. But absent of any embossment. He thumbed through the remaining pages and saw a few more sheets like it. He read on. . . .
peple in tha haus tel me he sint u a wey. it heps sum to no thaet but it stil herts. u r mi hom. i wil nevr b hom agin az longe az u r gon. i mis u. i luk fer u evre dae. wer did u go. if i canot git a wey from heer i think i will di. i prae i will di.
He turned the page sideways and read what was written in the margin.
this wuz a gud dae. he did not sho hemsef. thae tel mee he is gon for sum tiem an i iz hapie for it. the ladi of tha hous cal me to hr and ast if i wont to lern to rite. she seam hapie to lern i no sum aredi. the ladi iz nis. i liek hr.
Daniel stared at the words and felt his spirits lift. He didn’t even know this woman, and yet was glad she’d had a good day, after so many bad ones. She was a slave—that much was clear. And what she revealed on these pages shed a painful light on another side of a world he’d once thought he’d known.
i woek screemin. u iz stil gon. i luk fer u evre dae but du not se u. he wuz heer agin. he see me to an i node wat wuz in his minde. he tok me to tha wuds. latr i ast god wy he evr maed me. but he do not anser. i thenk he terns his hed bcuz it herts him to se. but he shud not tern his hed. he maed us an he shud fx us.
The words blurred. Daniel blinked, and the tear narrowly missed the page. It took him a moment before he could continue.
The next page was more crinkled, and some of the words were smudged.
i iz wit chile. i iz sik at first dae but beter az it gos. i hv not tole u yet. bcuz i am not shur it iz yur sed. i prae it iz or prae the chile diez insied me. The ladi of the hous cam an braut presnz todae. she got pritty eyez. i do not thenk she nos wat hr huzbend do to me.
Anger built inside Daniel swift and hot. He realized he was gripping the page and laid it against his thigh to rub out the crinkles, but the paper tore at the corner.
By the time he finished reading the last letter in the pouch, he thought he knew who the woman was in relation to Josiah, and wondered—if she was still alive—if she had ever given birth to the child.
Elizabeth awakened, feeling depleted in every way she could imagine. She wasn’t hungry, but her body craved something down deep, and she knew what it wanted. She tried to rise up, but pain shot across her forehead, forcing her back down.
“Hey there, take it easy.” Daniel appeared over her and she instinctively reached for him. His hands were warm, his grip solid. “They brought you some breakfast, if you’re hungry.”
Wanting to fill
the voracious void inside her with something, she nodded and ate without asking what it was. “How’s Josiah doing?”
Daniel smiled. “He’s better. He got up and walked around yesterday. The Ute are amazed by him. Most of them have never seen a Negro before, and especially not a man like him.”
The Ute men and women she’d seen in recent days were friendly people, always smiling, and they were beautiful with their dark skin, hair, and eyes. She wished again for her camera in order to capture this world that was relatively unknown by Chronicle readers.
The consistency of the porridge-like substance was peculiar. It tasted unlike anything she’d had before, but she ate it with gratitude. She teared up thinking of that day at the Tuckers’ and how she’d responded to their generosity. She finished chewing and swallowed. “It’s not squirrel, but I guess it’ll do.”
“Who knows . . . It may be squirrel all ground up. I didn’t ask.” He winked. “But I ate some first, so I know it’s all right.”
“How long have we been here?”
Daniel dipped the wooden spoon in the bowl. “A week so far. As soon as you get your strength back, maybe in a couple more days, we’ll head out.”
A week . . . So much time lost. And yet she was so grateful. Every time she’d opened her eyes, he’d been there.
“Thank you, Daniel, again . . . for taking care of me. And for not leaving me behind, or threatening to.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Let’s just say I’ve got a vested interest in you now, Miss Westbrook.”
She stopped midchew, his statement resurrecting old suspicions. She swallowed, thinking of men in the past who’d used her to get to her father. “A vested interest?”
“Well, sure . . .” He tugged a curl. “Who else is going to cook for me all the way out here?”
Sighing, she smiled, realizing her suspicions were unfounded. If there was one man who wasn’t after a connection with her father, who didn’t care in the least, it was Daniel Ranslett.
The view from the ridge was breathtaking. The midday sun angled across the southernmost range of the snowcapped Rocky Mountains and filtered through the pungent forest of evergreen surrounding them. For the hundredth time, Elizabeth wished she had her camera along, wanting to capture a portion of this beauty and share it with others.
She blinked.
For the first time she could remember, her initial thought in relation to photographs hadn’t been of Wendell Goldberg or the Chronicle. Or even the Timber Ridge Reporter. Drayton Turner came to mind and she pushed him out again, wanting as much distance between her and that man as possible. Thinking of him made her wish for her derringer, which she’d lost in the avalanche.
“You about ready?” Daniel walked up beside her. “We need to move on. Rain’s coming in, and I’d prefer not to sleep out in it tonight if it can be helped.”
“I never thought I’d say it, but I’d be thrilled to sleep in a cave tonight.”
“Josiah and I will even let you make the smoosh.”
She laughed. “Oh, please, not that again.” The corn-bread batter drizzled into hot bacon grease and fried up crisp had been good the first twenty-something times, but she was getting tired of it. And when she’d made it twice before, hers turned out so crunchy it nearly broke Josiah’s teeth.
Daniel shrugged. “We eat what we’ve got. If we make good time, I might have a chance to go hunting before dark.”
She practically ran for her horse, urging Josiah to do the same.
Josiah beat her into the saddle. “You move pretty quick-like when you’re wantin’ to, Miz Westbrook.”
“When properly motivated by real food, I can do a lot of things.”
Two weeks had passed since they’d left the Ute camp. She had asked Makya if they could stop again on their way back through, if there was time. He’d shown interest in learning more about her camera, which she had described to him, and she didn’t want to leave the territory without capturing images of his people, of their ancient lifestyle. Makya had spoken with such reverence about the dwellings in the cliffs at Mesa Verde. It was sacred ground to them and many of their children had yet to see the caves. She promised to bring pictures on the return trip.
Josiah’s strength had returned more quickly than had hers, and she could still taste the syrup burning a path down her throat. Sucking on Daniel’s peppermint helped, as did realizing what her reliance on morphine had been doing to her. She didn’t have Dr. Brookston to back her up, but she would swear that her lungs were stronger and that she could breathe more deeply without it.
A couple of hours down the path, they came to a fork in the trail and Daniel glanced back at her. “Which way is south, Elizabeth? If you’re right, I’ll make dinner. If not, you do.”
“Heaven help us all,” Josiah whispered behind her.
She laughed. Daniel was testing her, and she took time to study the sun’s position along with the direction from which they’d been traveling—and had absolutely no idea. But she wasn’t about to admit that. She had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. “The path to the right is south.”
Daniel smiled and started toward the right. She felt a moment of triumph until he yanked his reins to the left at the very last minute. “Sorry, Miss Westbrook, but that’ll lead us back across the pass we traveled a week ago.”
She groaned. “Does this mean you’re not going hunting?”
“This means that if I do go hunting, you have to cook whatever I bring back.”
“Don’t you worry none, ma’am, whatever he brings back, I help you with it.”
She glanced behind her. “I can always count on you, Josiah.”
“Yes, ma’am, you can. Long as you clean up your mess of dishes.” His deep laughter encouraged theirs.
Elizabeth looked up to see Beau tromping toward her in the cave, with a very dead animal clutched between his teeth. Hearing Daniel’s footsteps, she spoke so he could hear. “This is nice, but I think I liked the flowers better.”
Grinning, he gave a short whistle, and Beau dropped the animal at her feet.
She picked the rabbit up by the ears. “What do I do with it now?”
“First you skin it—then you roast it.”
She eyed it. “Can I do one or the other, but not both?”
Josiah reached around her. “I do the skinnin’ for you, ma’am. You search for some sticks and strip the bark clean.”
Without complaint, she walked outside to gather branches. It was the middle of May, and spring was finally coming to the high country, as Daniel called it. The temperatures were still on the cool side, especially at night, but nothing like when they’d first set out. Daniel told her it would be another three weeks before they reached Mesa Verde, maybe less with no mishaps.
She found sticks she thought would be appropriate and showed them to Daniel.
“I’m impressed.” Using his knife, he showed her how to strip the bark from the branch. “Then you just take it like this and . . .”
He worked the rabbit, now skinned and cleaned, onto the skewer, and Elizabeth didn’t even wince. Amazing how hunger could make a person less squeamish and picky.
After dinner, Daniel passed the peppermint tin, which was getting low on contents. She took a stick, broke a third off, and put the rest back. “How did you come to have such an affinity for this?”
Reminiscence shaded his smile. “My mother used to keep a tin of sugar sticks—that’s what she called them—on top of the dining room hutch. Every so often she’d hide them from me and my brothers, but we’d find them.” A mischievous grin tipped his mouth. “We always found them. She never said anything about the game we were playing. . . .” He reached up and fingered his stubbled jaw. “Not until the very end.”
Elizabeth hadn’t known they had this in common. “She’s gone? Your mother?”
He nodded.
She wanted to ask more about his childhood, about his home, but the wistfulness in his expression kept her from it. As did
the knowledge that any memories he might share of Tennessee, of the South, would no doubt conjure harsh ones for Josiah.
A hot spring was located not far from the cave, and they took turns bathing that evening. The warm water felt luxurious, and she washed her hair, twice, not even finding the smell bothersome.
As she lay down on her pallet that night, she noticed Josiah was still awake, which was unusual. Most often he was the first one asleep. He was reading something, and her mind went to the journal pages Daniel had given her to read at Josiah’s bidding. Both she and Daniel had agreed not to push him to talk about it. Perhaps he regretted having given them to Daniel—having shared them under extreme circumstances.
But Josiah wasn’t reading pages from the leather pouch. He was reading his Bible, and whatever passage he read was encouraging a wistful smile. She watched him, enjoying the expressions moving over his face, while thinking of her own Bible she’d left back in her room at the boardinghouse. She wished now that she’d brought it along. Moments passed, and Josiah finally laid the book aside and closed his eyes. Soon she heard his deep, rhythmic breathing, followed by Daniel’s not long after.
But for her, sleep wouldn’t come.
She added another log to the fire and brushed off her hands, seeing the small scar from the cut on her palm. She shook her head, recalling when Daniel had removed the sutures. It hadn’t been pleasant, but at least she hadn’t fainted.
She stretched out on her pallet again. Being here, on this journey, was the fulfillment of her dream. Or she hoped it would be. “The biggest regrets we have in life, child, aren’t the things we do. But the things we don’t do.” Those words, spoken by Tillie on her deathbed, were what had finally spurred her to pursue her dream of being a journalist and a photographer. They’d also given her the courage to come west, and she hoped to make Tillie proud.
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Page 29