41
She could breathe.
That was the first thing Elizabeth noticed when she began to awaken. She tried to open her eyes but quickly closed them. The sunlight was excruciating. Her eyelids felt swollen, and they burned on the inside. Her throat ached as if she hadn’t had anything to drink for days. She tried to swallow and would’ve cried out, but the lining of her throat refused further abuse.
She was seated on the ground with what felt like a rock at her back. Her arms were tied behind her. She tried to move her feet, but her ankles were bound as well.
“You’re awake, Miss Westbrook. I thought possibly I’d lost you there for a while.”
She went still, recognizing the voice.
Sensing shade on her face, she chanced a look and blinked. Not so much to see him better but to make sure she was seeing correctly. She closed her eyes again; the light and air on her eyes was too painful.
“I apologize for the way I had to escort you here, ma’am. Considering our past, I doubted whether you would’ve come if I’d asked you straight out. Especially not once I told you the purpose of our visit.” Turner laughed softly. “You know, Miss Westbrook . . . it’s not nice to open someone else’s mail.”
His voice, his manner, sounded so normal. It sent chills skittering up her spine.
“Didn’t make sense to me at first when I realized the letter had already been opened. Miss Cantrell didn’t say a thing about it . . . because she didn’t open it. I remembered you having her portfolio in your hands when you left, and that’s when it all came together. She had to go home to get that for you, and you went snooping.”
Elizabeth cringed, listening. If only she could talk to him. Then again, she wondered if it would make any difference.
“Miss Cantrell never opens my personal mail, but then . . . you had no way of knowing that. Did you, ma’am? I’m actually quite impressed, in a way. I didn’t realize you had the gumption to do something so . . . beneath you.”
Without her sight, sounds became more distinct, and Elizabeth tried to identify what she heard. The wind in the trees, a rustling somewhere behind her, and in the distance, a hawk’s cry. She tested the ropes binding her wrists.
“The ropes aren’t overly tight, Miss Westbrook, because—” He paused. “May I call you Elizabeth? I feel like I’ve learned so much about you in your absence.”
She didn’t respond.
“I know it probably hurts you to speak, but perhaps you could nod. That would only be proper, I think.”
Wishing she had her derringer, Elizabeth nodded as she rubbed her wrists together behind her back. Daniel had to be wondering where she was by now. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but surely he would come looking for her. But how would he know where to look? Even the best tracker in the territory couldn’t track what he hadn’t seen.
“Thank you . . . Elizabeth.” The crunch of gravel. Turner was moving around. “The ropes aren’t overly tight because I don’t want any marks on your wrists. Not that it matters much in the end, but I’m trying my best to—What are you doing?”
She continued to work against her bindings.
He set something down. A crate? “Stop that, Elizabeth.”
Unexpected fury filled her. At his tone and demeanor, at who he was, at what he’d done to her. To Josiah. She kept rubbing.
Pain exploded across the left side of her face and she fell hard to the ground, feeling her right shoulder pop. She gasped, groaning aloud, wishing now that she’d done as he’d asked. Dust coated her tongue.
“That’s part of your problem. You simply don’t listen.” He sighed.
She heard something behind her. A twig breaking. Or maybe a squirrel in the brush. “And you have this . . . air about you. I noticed it the first time we met. You look down on us, Elizabeth. The people of Timber Ridge. We are somehow . . . less in your mind, but that’s of little importance now.”
She felt certain that if she could see him he would look maniacal. But all she could picture was him in that feathered bowler, and the image in her mind didn’t fit with the term. But what he’d done to her back in her room—and what he was doing now—did.
She started to shake, not on the surface, but inside, deep down, in the center of her belly. It was a nauseating fear, one born of fatigue and regret. God, I don’t want to die. Not here, not yet, not like this. She tried to sit up and couldn’t. She heard clicks and scrapes. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing. He was setting up her camera on the tripod. . . .
“You’re the daring woman photographer come to tame this vast western frontier, Elizabeth.” He said it with the same dramatic flair he’d used the night he interviewed her. “Everyone in town knows how you travel these mountains, braving the wild to get your self-serving photographs. And they know of your breathing problems, so I don’t think this will be too much of a shock for them. Or much of a disappointment.”
Eyelids closed, she moved her eyes from side to side, trying to ease their sensitivity. Whatever he’d laced the cloth with was not quick to forgive, and she didn’t think she would stand another bout with it. She imagined what a cool cloth would feel like laid over her eyes, and unexpected tears rose in response.
She blinked and finally managed to keep her eyes open for a few seconds at a time.
Turner’s back was to her. From this odd sideways angle, she watched him. She saw her equipment set up at the edge of the cliff and slowly realized what he was going to do—he was going to push her off the cliff. And make it look like an accident.
Fear coiled inside her. She shivered and remembered something Josiah had said. Something about fearing what was ahead. “Knowin’ Jesus has already sifted through what’s comin’ before it gets to me . . . Well, I reckon that ought to be enough.” Thinking of all the hardships Josiah had faced in his life, tears slipped down her cheeks. She prayed for the same faith he had to be in her. Jesus knew where she was. He’d sifted through this moment before it had gotten to her. She clung to that thought, repeating it over and over. Jesus knows where I am. He knows where I am. . . .
Tillie had been right about regrets. It wasn’t so much the things she’d done that Elizabeth regretted in that moment—other than opening that letter—it was the things she hadn’t done. And if given only a handful of moments to live, she would have spent every one of them with the people she loved, letting them know—some for the very first time—just how much she cared.
Turner angled toward her, and she quickly closed her eyes.
He raised her to a sitting position and reached around behind her. “Try my patience again, Elizabeth . . .” His tone was cordial. “And next time I’ll use my fist.”
He untied her wrists, and she didn’t dare open her eyes. He untied her ankles, and she took inventory of her body. Her right shoulder throbbed. She moved it slightly and fire shot down through her back and arm. It would take a few seconds to regain her balance once she stood, so running was out of the question. Unless she could hit him with something first, and she needed to open her eyes to do that. But if she opened her eyes at the wrong time, her element of surprise would be lost. And if she did try to hit him, she needed to hit him hard enough to knock him out. Because he’d already proven that, if it came to a fight, he would win.
With confusing gentleness, he helped her stand. Her legs were unsteady from lack of use and tingled as the blood rushed down into them. She tried to swallow, wanting to scream in case someone was within earshot, but the dust in her mouth made it impossible.
He took hold of her arm and pulled her forward. Chancing it, she opened her eyes again. He was looking ahead, pulling a cloth from his pocket. The cliff where her camera was set up was no more than fifteen feet away. She tried to dig in her boot heels, but he just pulled harder.
“One advantage of housing the only telegraph office in town, Elizabeth, is that it gives one insight into the goings-on within a community. Return . . . first . . . photograph . . . of . . . body. Stop. Attentio
n . . . Sheriff . . . McPherson.”
He was quoting one of the telegrams she’d sent to Wendell Goldberg.
Turner paused and turned. She squinted her eyes tight. His grip threatened to cut off the circulation in her arm.
“You simply can’t be assured of privacy in such a rustic little town, can you, ma’am?” He was facing her. She felt his breath on her cheek. He made a tsking noise. “Pity . . .”
She caught a whiff of the same acrid scent she’d smelled back in her room. If she would have any opportunity, this was it. She opened her eyes, saw his widen, and went for his face, clawing, scratching.
Anything cordial about Drayton Turner vanished.
His fist came at her and she pulled back, but he caught her on the chin and everything went fuzzy for a few seconds. She tried to push him away and he gave her right arm a vicious tug. Her knees buckled from the pain and she went down.
“Your problem, Elizabeth”—he dragged her closer to the cliff, his grip viselike—“like so many others, is that you underestimated my—”
An eerie screech, unearthly and primal, rose from the mountains. The air trembled with the sound, and so did she. The squall washed over the canyon, crashing against the walls and echoing back. Her flesh crawled, and she imagined not just one voice, but thousands of rebel voices joined in the primitive chorus. Brothers readying for battle, readying to die, and she knew that what Josiah had said about the cry was true.
Turner went stock-still. Seizing the moment, she twisted away from him and turned to run. But he recovered and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her back. He pressed the cloth over her mouth and nose. She held her breath, but fumes still worked their way inside. Rawness burned in her throat.
She grabbed at his hands and arms, digging in her nails, fighting for air, aware of consciousness slipping. She opened her eyes and saw the canyon far below—
Then time stilled. The world took on a slower pace.
Turner jerked and his grip on her went slack. She looked over at him. His eyes were wide, his mouth frozen in surprise. Blood issued from a hole in his chest. Choking, she pried his hand from her hair and quickly moved away. Disbelief whitened his face as he staggered back. And plunged into the ravine.
Only then did she hear the report of the Whitworth rifle.
42
They’s ready for the photograph, Miz Westbrook. And gettin’ a mite impatient too, if you askin’ me.”
“Thank you, Josiah. I’ve almost got things ready.” Focusing the image, Elizabeth wished there were a way to capture the golden brilliance of aspen and the burnished red of maples skirting the Maroon Bells in the distance. Not certain yet which season would prove to be her favorite in the Rockies, she had a feeling it would end up being autumn.
She knew the science behind the leaves changing colors as the trees went dormant, “dying” for a season, but the transformation represented a time of reflection for her. A time when that which was once hidden was laid bare, and she couldn’t help but wonder if that had been part of God’s design in this particular season—giving people a chance to see the intricacy of His design. That’s what He’d done with her in recent months. He’d stripped away, layer by layer, until He’d shown her what was most important.
She bent to peer through the glass viewer again. Residents of Timber Ridge had turned out en masse for the dedication of the new school. Now all they needed was a teacher. James had placed newspaper advertisements for interested parties in all the major cities back east, and the town council was currently accepting applications.
It had taken some time, but she’d finally penned the details of that day on the cliff with Turner. Though she had dreaded doing it, the process turned out to be cleansing, and she thought she’d laid that memory, and that man, to rest. Yet she wasn’t naïve enough to think she would never be bothered by it again—she knew about Daniel’s dreams.
“That’s a mighty nice bustle on that dress, ma’am.”
She felt a bold hand on the small of her back and slowly straightened. She’d worn this dress—her favorite, the red with the black cummerbund—for him, remembering how he’d commented on it in the store when she’d first arrived in Timber Ridge. “Mr. Ranslett, as a Southern gentleman, you really ought not to be looking at my bustle, sir.”
A scoundrel-worthy smile tipped his mouth. “I reckon you’re right, but tell me now . . . just why are you wearing such a thing if not to attract a little more attention to it?”
She bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Don’t you have someplace you’re supposed to be?”
He tipped his hat and turned to go, but not before she felt a swift tug on her backside. That man . . . She bent again to peer through the camera’s lens only to see him walk straight into her line of vision, along with Beau.
Daniel took a place beside Rachel and her boys. Not too close. Mitchell and Kurt smiled up at him, but Rachel did not. Her face showed her struggle, though Elizabeth guessed she tried hard to hide it. Rachel was, after all, a proper Southern belle. Her hands on her sons’ shoulders, she moved away from Daniel, ever so slightly. No one else seemed to notice, but Elizabeth did. And so did he.
Seeing Josiah waiting, Elizabeth motioned for those occupying the left side of the lens to scrunch closer. The Tuckers and their children scooted in, and she noted Rand Brookston standing by them. That handsome young doctor had worked a miracle for her, and it seemed he was working one for little Davy too.
The afternoon she’d walked into her room at the boardinghouse and discovered her equipment destroyed, she thought her dreams had been destroyed as well. What she hadn’t known then was that God loved her enough to intervene in her dream—to shatter it, to shatter her—only so He could put her back together and give her an even bigger, better dream. His dream for her life.
She’d thought her coming to the Colorado Territory had been for her career. And who knew, maybe it would still turn out that way, in part. But her real passion lay with Daniel Ranslett in a shared dream—one they hoped would gain the attention of Congress.
The photograph she’d taken, the one James had hoped would reveal a clue about Travis Coulter’s murder, had revealed nothing. But in the end it didn’t matter. Going on a tip from the letter she’d read, the one Turner had destroyed, James traveled to New York and tracked the sale of Coulter’s pistol to a gun buyer there, who had acquired it from an unsuspecting employee at Brooklyn Land Development. Coulter had made a deal with Turner to sell his land to the New York–based company, but apparently changed his mind at the last minute. And the decision cost him his life. Turner had also had a contact inside the Denver Commissioner’s Office who was going to swing the bid in the auction to his favor. He would’ve gotten away with murder, if not for her curiosity.
Daniel smiled at her through the camera lens, and she knew it was time. Certain the image was focused, she carefully slid the protective plate holder into place and removed the slide. She reached for the lens cap.
“I know what’s to do now, ma’am, so you just run on.”
She pulled her hand back. “I’m sure you do, Josiah. You’re a quick learner, and the best assistant I’ve ever had. But are you sure you’ll know how long to—”
“Trust me, ma’am.” He gestured. “Now you just get on over there on that side for once.”
She hesitated, then did as he bade.
Daniel held out his hand. “You’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen, Elizabeth Westbrook, and I have a spot for you right here beside me.” He pulled her close. Kurt and Mitchell smiled from where they stood, and she reached over and tousled their little red heads. Wordlessly, she reached behind her for Rachel’s hand. Rachel gripped hers tight and held on.
“All right, everybody, stop all that talkin’ and hold them smiles.”
Everyone grew quiet except for a stifled giggle here and there throughout the crowd.
Josiah removed the brass cap from the lens, and Elizabeth was certain she saw his lower lip tremble before he began
. “ ‘Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal . . .’ ”
EPILOGUE
SENATE CHAMBER
NORTH WING OF THE UNITED STATES CAPITOL
FRIDAY, JANUARY 21, 1876
Elizabeth reached for Daniel, seated beside her. His hand was warm and large and rough, and enveloped hers completely. “Are you ready?” she whispered.
He stroked the underside of her wrist with his thumb. “Thanks to you . . . I am.”
She looked around the chamber. Nearly a year had passed since she’d been in this room, and it was every bit as resplendent now as then but felt far more intimidating to her today.
People filled the hall and conversation rose to a hum. Every gallery ticket was spoken for, the clerk had told her. Men occupied every elected seat. But someday—she held hope—women would fill these seats as well. Perhaps in her lifetime. She thought of the days ahead, then just as quickly thought of those most recently past.
She and Daniel had married at his family plantation in Franklin in early December, then had spent the following weeks there in the family home where he’d grown up. They’d walked the now peaceful fields where Benjamin and so many others had died years ago. It was hallowed ground beneath their feet, and as they’d traced those paths—all the way from his home to nearby Carnton Plantation, where so many were buried—they’d spoken in hushed tones, when they’d spoken at all.
The pound of a gavel from the front of the chamber drew everyone’s attention, and everyone took their places. Gradually, the din of conversation fell away.
“The Senate will now come to order.” The president of the Senate presided from the central dais, with the assistant secretary, the journal clerk, parliamentarian, and legislative clerk on the tier below him. “On this twenty-first day of January, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy-six, we yield the floor to Senator Garrett Eisenhower Westbrook, of the grand state of Maryland.”
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